I am beginning to lose heart 

Two months of Clomid. 

Two months of eating. 

Two months of not running (made worse by three weeks of really not running because of a cold and a sprain). 

And the net result? Two periods and jeans that feel tight and thighs that feel flabby and the beginnings of a double chin. 

So really. No actual improvement other than being slightly less anxious. Which is of dubious benefit. 

I need a pep talk. Before I start wallowing in a pity party. 


Let’s have some knitting pictures

Majorknitter always used to like a knitting photo post. Please excuse any repeats. I’m waiting for a database to restore…

In no particular order

 Socks for Nikki. She basically dared me on Facebook. 

A pink pussy hat. Protesting is a serious business. Also, I made it a tad too big. 

A slipcover for Oliver. Knitted mostly in the round because fairisle purl is not my strongest point. 

Peace de resistance mittens. I’m getting all political. Yo. 

Not knitting: the cover gift from this month’s Mollie Makes. Should have done the whole thing with 3 or 4 strands. 6 strands of thread were just too bulky for the needle. 
Sock monkeys by Cookie A. Originally destined for Emma. But coming out me sized. 

But it’s OK. These are for Emma. You can’t see it very well, but the yarn contains a strand of stellata sparkle. Which makes for rather luxe grey socks. 


Lazy Sunday

I sneeze, therefore I am. I’ve caught N’s cold (it seems to be a short-lived cold – he was iffy on Tuesday, exploded on Wednesday and is mostly back to normal now), and, unsurprisingly, it’s hit me after my first run in 2.5 weeks (2.2 miles, 9:30 min/mile as I was being lazy about putting the HRM on). The verdict from the run: my ankle’s not right yet. But it’s not awful either. Spot more mollycoddling required.  The Rock Tape has definitely helped.

And otherwise? 3 hours worth of guidemin (mostly putting together an epic food order for the leaders’ weekend which will need masses of changing because people are changing their minds on what they want to cook, particularly because we no longer need to accommodate the lady who has issues with tomatoes). Found the deeds for the house (was trying to find out if we have cavity wall insulation. Whereever this information happenst o be, it’s not with the deeds). Discovered how many times the extension has been built. Looked at the old plans from when it was a shop. Considering getting a sign saying ‘The Old Corner Shop’ as its address used to be ‘The Corner Shop’.  Also found a small batch of paperwork which is nothing to do with us, so will have to return that to the conveyancers.

I’ve written some Valentines to my MP, my local Councillors and my Local County Councillor, as part of Action #3 from The Women’s March. I’m supposed to be building a website for our local huddle this weekend, but right now I’m feeling too bleagh. Yesterday I spent haring round London (the flat needs new carpet. And underlay. And the tenants have been told if they don’t sort the mould problem out, they will lose part of their deposit because I have never seen either the back bedroom wall or the bathroom *that* mouldy. I’m quite upset it’s got to that point…it’s the first time they’ve not lived at home, they have to learn these things). I spent 2 hours mentoring. I bought polyester wadding, and my MiL’s Mothering Sunday present, and also got a rather cool journal for me (I think it’ll help the mindfulness – I’m doing Ruby Wax’s course. She’s awesome. I may be reiterating – but I feel understood). I bought tape to mend the rips in the lining of my favourite winter coat. I think pretty Liberty Print Bias Binding will suit very well. I’m torn between spending the rest of the evening sewing that, and de-fuzzing the garment, and finishing the first of my Peace De Resistance mittens.

It was the annual morris dancers’ winter feast last night. Such awesome Boeuf Bourguignon. Gordon started cooking it on Thursday, and the meat was ridiculously tender. And fried Polenta. And a brilliantly colourful salad. Excellent silly company, and some good catching up. I feel fairly well fuelled. I have a vague idea about making a mug cake while N goes to watch Trainspotting 2 (we were both going to go – we (re)watched it on Laser Disc this afternoon. However, I just don’t fancy going outside. Too cold and damp out there. I have done nowhere near enough steps this last week, and frankly this week going forward is also going to be tricky).

Oooh! I’ve gained 8lbs since Christmas. I’ve just bought yet more secondhand jeans on eBay, this time an inch bigger (as opposed to October’s an inch smaller). I still fit my usual pairs – but there’s going to come a point where they’re just going to look wrong, so I’m Being Prepared. I’m now about to go and spend the voucher I got for subscribing to a newspaper on some slightly comfier bras…I am busting out of my usual ones. If you’ll excuse the pun. It’s rather nice having a spot of cleavage.




The world has gone mad

The world may yet go sane. In the meantime, I look at my Grandmother, holding on to my father in late 1940 (she was 40 at that point) and see so many parallels. Somehow, it’s very comforting. Her smile. 

Today, we welcomed T into the Catholic Church: I am his big sister’s Godmother (despite being Church of England). There’s something comforting about liturgy, about taking part in something that’s not changed for centuries, about something that expresses love, and welcome. About vowing to renounce Evil (or Satan). About saying the same prayers. It’s one of the things I love about going to church: something I do very sporadically. Sharing the same words with so many people round the world. Hearing the comfortable words in the Common Prayer (and isn’t that the most marvellous phrase? Comfortable words): 

Come unto me all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.

Such a nice sentiment. I’m not wildly keen on the idea of justification by faith alone: deeds are just as important. Or, as The Doctor puts it “Never be cruel and never be cowardly. And if you ever are, always make amends.” Or, Wil Wheaton “Don’t be a dick.”

Ankle is healing gently. I’m sure I need to give it more rest. And I will give it a week after it’s not hurt before trying it again. I want to be able to enjoy running: and get the introspection out through my feet. 

I have an ear worm. There are worse ear worms: it’s the song of the World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts. I like the second verse more. 

Our way is clear as we march on,

And see! Our flag on high,

Is never furled throughout the world,

For hope shall never die!

We must unite for what is right,

In friendship true and strong,

Until the earth,

In its rebirth,

Shall sing our song!

Shall sing our song!

All those who loved the true and good,

Whose promises were kept,

With humble mind, whose acts were kind,

whose honour never slept;

These were the free!

And we must be,

Prepared like them to live,

To give to all,

Both great and small,

All we can give

Today, I remember Szyja Waisbrod

He was Born in Tarnopol, and he worked in import and export. His wife was called Neta. Their son was Khaim. He was murdered, aged 57 in the ghetto in Kupczynce, because he was a Jew. Neta was 45. I don’t know how old Khaim was. They’re recorded in Yad Vashem’s database by their cousin, Lea Shteinvurztel, along with 29 other members of Lea’s family.

In 2013, Eff and I went to a lecture at the Jewish Cultural Centre, in which Professor Yehuda Bauer explained the origins of World War II in terms of Hitler’s crackpot ideology: that if they didn’t exterminate the Jews, the Nazis themselves would be killed by the international Jeiwsh-Bolshevik conspiracy. That all of Germany was permeated by this ideology owing to some very persuasive speakers. As good little Marxist Historians, we felt that he was slightly underplaying the social and economic role played in Germany’s advance to war (the good professor suggested we go back to our Engels), at the same time, the idea that, while the 6 million were being exterminated, another 29 million also died because a bunch of lunatics somehow got in charge, was perturbing.

And in the meantime, on National Holocaust Memorial Day, I light my candle, and decide to be more proactive about ensuring that it never happens again. And to keep being proactive. Regardless of how scary it is.


I don’t know what I did

But, just after I’d decided it was too cold, too dark and too damp for 4 miles last night, and had turned back after a mile, I planted awkwardly, resulting in searing mint green coloured pain across the top of my left foot, a plethora of similarly vibrant expletives, and a slightly tearful call to N to get rescued. 

Now in a revoltingly expensive taxi to the nearest minor injuries as there were slightly too many expletives for comfort this morning any time I moved it the “wrong” way. It needs strapping up. Properly. We have an A&E about a mile away, but it’s not bad enough for that, so the longer trip it is. We’re not even in the right town and the fare’s well into double figures. Fortunately they take cards. 

Driving myself not really being an option. And N had a PDR today so couldn’t WFH and drive me. And I thought I was OK, and part of me thinks this is a huge waste of resources but part of me knows that getting things properly checked is sensible and adult. 

(Update: this didn’t post when I wrote it. And I have merely sprained my ankle. But that’s it for running for about a month I reckon. Should be just about well when I go to Indianapolis…)