yarnstorm

outside in

We are noticing just how much the dynamics of being at home with three teenagers (Phoebe is a teenager by nature, if not actual age) have changed. Simon has taken two lovely, long weeks off work and we find, amazingly, that we are up and about in the morning before the stay-abeds. Never did I really believe this day would come. But it has, and it means we can do the kind of thing we used to do before we had children. Like take a six-minute train journey to admire a view, get a coffee and then catch the same train back to enjoy the view in reverse. Or plant tulip bulbs in companionable silence. Or be one of the first in to Wisley on a cold and sunny morning to revel in the emptiness and space.

The visit was an exercise in getting out of the house and inhaling some fresh air. So we wandered around looking at the skeleton of the garden, the brownness of it all, the deadness of almost everything. And then we came across the new glasshouse.

Inside we went, and found the most incredible collection of exotic plants and flowers, all lush and stunningly colourful. It was quite amazing to think that in some parts of the world these scenes would actually be outside and not all molly-coddled and expensively maintained under glass.

But after the monochromatic English vegetation outside, it was a treat to see these wonderful orchids and jungly flowers. What a blast of colour and vigour.

What sturdy grace and unseasonal profusion.

And I liked the way the top photos picked up the ghostly outside of another part of the glasshouse next to the bright sky and sun of the real outside.

Once we had been heated up to tropical greenhouse temperature, we went back in the chill English air and, my eyes now attuned to seeing colour, came across some beautiful, brilliant red and gold dogwoods.

There's something to go on the to-be-planted-before-the children-are-awake list.

Of course, they are just saving their energy for New Year's Eve, while we shall be slumped, watching a tape of one of the excellent films in the film noir season on BBC 2 this week (they are on in the middle of the night, both far too late and far too early for us).

Happy New Year to all.

juicy socks

I find citrus fruits that are sold with their leaves ridiculously appealing. I'm sure it's because we never see lemons and oranges growing on full-size trees here, and we can never wander outside to pick a fresh lime to squeeze into our evening gin. I've hardly ever seen citrus trees laden with fruit because I rarely travel in winter to the kind of place where they grow but, if I ever do see any, they please me enormously. So occasionally I pay a premium to buy clementines with their (already withering) leaves still attached just so that I can imagine how wonderful it would be to pick my own. 

Phoebe (my foot model - or should that be phoot model?) spotted this yarn at the UK Stitch 'n' Bitch Day in November and we both loved the combination of colours. As I knitted these socks for her, the bright orange and limey green made me think of leafy clementines and satsumas and they became her Juicy Socks (the knitting version of Juicy Couture, of course).

The photographs were a great excuse to buy some clementines with leaves, and for Phoebe to show off what she's learned from watching America's Next Top Model. Only they never model socks, as she pointed out. Those girls don't know what they are missing.

The yarn is Trekking XXL colour 158 knitted on 2.75mm dpns to a very basic pattern. And I'm sorry, but I don't remember the name of the retailer.

cheerfulness breaks in

Well, that was a break and a half, and it feels good to be back. I've been waiting for cheerfulness to break in (as in the wonderfully named novel Cheerfulness Breaks In by Angela Thirkell) and it took longer than expected.

In the meantime the amaryllis 'Benfica' have been utterly stunning with their deep, velvety, light-absorbing red blooms, and the white and pink hyacinths have come, filled the kitchen with their scent, and gone. Hundreds of tulips have been planted in the claggy soil and I can already see the tips of daffodils in pots.

I'm delighted with the sense of movement and growth and new cycles after a month of deep dislocation. These amaryllis have been more important than simple ornamentation and, thankfully, there are still a few more left to flower.

I'm thinking of calling my new quilt the Amaryllis Quilt, with its combination of deep reds and chartreuse greens. I don't quite know where I found the impetus to begin, but one miserable day I decided to make a diamond quilt, and the next day the floor was covered with jewel-like garnets and rubies and emeralds. It took me a little while to master the art of cutting diamonds but, once I had, it was incredibly therapeutic to build up the criss-crosses and angles into a stained-glass window design - and to be ruthless and reject the diamonds which simply didn't work. And there were quite a few - which have since been refashioned into thirty different dresses for a certain young designer's latest collection

I knew for certain this morning that cheerfulness is beginning to break in at last. Alice and I went to the Tate Modern, and there is nothing better for the spirit than going to see a collection of modern art with a teenager with an open mind and few preconceptions. At least she could see that the huge crack in the Turbine Hall was real (unlike some other visitors).

   

That's what I need: clear vision. And I feel I'm beginning to focus once more.