LK doesn’t like bananas. Unless mashed up in custard. I don’t have the knack of that.
In this turbid time, while I panic over feeding my aged parentals, I give you snippets of good news (I think we have the food covered bar meat, as their local butcher is shutting for the duration. Trying to get an online order is a full time job in and of itself).
LK did a tiny wee on the potty this morning.
I was correct as to why my code failed, but woefully dumb at locating the problem.
I finished a sweater, using yarn bought just after 7/7.
I (bad) bought a pair of cycling shorts new in case of total lockdown.
The park is empty when we go for exercise.
I have lost the last of the baby weight.
We have seen an eagle, lots of robins, a long tailed tit, some thrushes and magpies in the park.
I’ve done some more darning, this time on a much loved and much mended sweater. It’s beginning to be more dark than sweater at this stage in its life. But there is plenty of life left in it yet.
The darn in the middle of the photo is the one we’re most interested in. There’s something so satisfying about a good darn.
I do need to fess up a bit of a failure. I marshalled at the wonderful Trionium Leith Hill Half on Saturday: I was meant to run it, but after a short, sharp bout of pneumonia about a month ago, I made the sensible decision to marshal instead. There was no way I’d be fit and strong enough to run. But, in addition to my cooked breakfast after the duty was done, I did pick up my tech top. So, while I didn’t exactly buy it this year, as I had paid for it when I entered last year, I do have a new top.
I may also have bought LK some ballet shoes for dancing on Saturday mornings. I have plans to make her a nifty heavy metal tutu from some black net I’ve got kicking about.
In my defence, they are slight seconds. The glue sort of escaped. And she will have no idea. And they are too cute.
With apologies to Barbra Streisland, but, Secondhand Rose has been my song. I wear a lot of secondhand clothes. I always have. The jeans in my last post were secondhand from eBay. Today’s jeans ditto. I do a grand line in secondhand coats and jackets, and dresses, and skirts. I used to love rootling round charity shops: now I tend to snatch a few minutes here and there depending on how fidgety LK is in the pushchair. From her perspective, the supermarket is vastly more interesting. More people. More bright colours.
Anyhow. Today is about secondhand bras. Isn’t this a beauty?
99p plus postage on eBay. I discovered I have 3 bras which actually fit me currently (I was a 30C/32B when I fell pregnant, and peaked at at 36D). What inflates, eventually, deflates. And there is very little point in spending money on anything that’s only going to be worn for a few months. However, 3 bras which fit isn’t enough to allow for nipple thrush prevention measures when on antibiotics (wash at 60deg or with Halo, clean bra daily) and a well fitting, comfortable bra is also fairly vital to my general demeanour. So off to eBay and I’ve got a total of 4 bras coming, and spent £11. I have also got 3 larger bras on sale, which look like bringing in about £10. And I can reuse the packaging the incoming bras arrived in for the outgoing bras. Score.
I’m not entirely done breastfeeding. I hope that when I am done, there can be another selling session. I am thrilled, though, that my pre-pregnancy sports bras fit again. My pregnancy/post-pregnancy ones have gone a very funny shade after a 60deg thrush wash. They lost brightness.
So here is my first try at not buying anything new. My jeans have worn. When I was at uni, I had next to no money. Well. I had savings. I also had a father who checked my savings book monthly and demanded to know why I was taking money out regularly. “Food, books, that sort of thing. Nothing exciting like weed.” I think he was a little disappointed that i has not developed a drug habit. I did a lot of mending my jeans, just to hold decency together.
This time, I went for a nice cheerful blue embroidery thread to sort out the hold. So every time I catch sight of my inner thigh, I am cheered up.
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.
On 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.