June 28, 2011

In Which I Both Do and Do Not Deserve What I Get

 

Sometimes you don’t get your just deserts, and sometimes this is a good thing.  Have I told you about trying to get my CRB—Criminal Records Bureau—clearance?  Pleeeeeeeease.  But as Deputy Ringing Master I am perceived as possibly having contact with kiddies or ‘vulnerable’ adults.  Another Deputy Ringing Master might very well do so.  I don’t—teach someone to ring?!?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—but never mind.  It looks nice to have all the paperwork tidy and paper-clipped and square-cornered.  Except the CRB people keep sending my paperwork back.  Either I’m not Robin McKinley Dickinson or I’m not J C Robin McKinley Dickinson or I wasn’t born 21 August 1862 in the Gilbert Islands.  Fuss fuss fuss fuss.  Angelica, who has the unlovely task of being liaison between the bell ringers and the arcane inner world of the greater church hierarchy*, keeps phoning me up apologetically and telling me my rubber papers have bounced once again.  Meanwhile my phone machine is possessed by demons.  I’ve told you that British Telecom, which is a whole category of ‘unlovely’ all by itself, insists that my regular recurrent problems with my landline are my problem, despite various geeks and technos arranged on the other side, and I’m so sick of the argument that when my phone goes meshuga yet again I ignore its ravings until it reverts to being a phone.**  So although I was aware I’d had a message from Angelica—and I could guess what it was about—I couldn’t actually hear it, so I chose to ignore it too.  In the hopes that the CRB would go away. 

            I made the mistake of answering the phone on my way out the door to catch the train yesterday, thinking it probably had something to do with London or parties or yarn or something, and it was Angelica.  Curses.  Foiled again.  She said that she had to have the latest frisky forms in the post tomorrow—which is to say today—or we had to start all over.  I said (grudgingly) I’d be round this morning for the hoop-jumping.

            I was a little late getting moving this morning what with one thing and another. ***  Which meant it was ten to noon by the time I got the hellhounds crammed back into the kitchen at the cottage and hared down the street toward the church—just like Sunday mornings for service ring†—gaah—and slowed down for the blind corner into the churchyard, which was a good thing, or I might’ve run full pelt into Angelica, specifically Angelica’s rear end, as she toiled to shove a monster pallet piled high with boxes, which was also being dragged from the front by the driver of the Monster Pallet Transportation Company lorry who had been ill-informed about delivery conditions.  I applied myself to the pallet also and I’m here to tell you she wouldn’t have done it alone.  We could have used a third.  That’s a surprisingly nasty little hill—as the locals rediscover every winter when it has ice on it.  Hi Robin, Angelica said, panting, How nice to see you.  What a good thing I was late, I replied, by now also panting.  The funny thing is that I was thinking, well, she can’t yell at me now . . . at the same time as I knew perfectly well she wouldn’t have anyway.  Things happen around Angelica because she wills them to.  Like that I’m still showing up (even if late) to play pat-a-cake with the CRB when if it weren’t for Angelica I’d’ve tied my rubber papers in a knot and given them to a kid for a Frisbee several caroms ago.  And if I hadn’t come along at that crucial moment of necessary propulsion . . . someone else would have.  Angelica is like that.  I’m just grateful that she seems to have chosen to commit her considerable powers to the furtherance of goodness and harmony.   If she’d decided to go for sedition and iniquity we’d be a Borg peripheral by now.

* * *

Meanwhile.  Yarn.   I walked into I Knit yesterday afternoon not knowing what to expect except that it better be good first after all the frelling build-up the store gets as a Hub of Knitting London and second after the flaming†† ordeal of finding it.  It’s surprisingly small††† but, you know, dense.  The long front-to-rear walls are floor-to-ceiling shelving and it’s all full of yarn and yarn books.  And across this crowded, confusing, hot, unfamiliar room . . . was the yarn.

Mmmm. Yarn. Mmmm. This does not, of course, give you the real colour, which is a much clearer green than dim indoor light reveals in a photo. But you get the idea. And it's Manos del Uruguay Handspun Pure Wool Kettle Dyed.

            I perhaps need to explain that I have been on a quest for some really good green yarn—the good to apply to both the green and the yarn—pretty much since I started this knitting shakedown diddle . . . when, last February or so?  Granted this hasn’t really had time to roll into true epic quest stature . . . but I can get intense pretty quickly‡‡ and furthermore green seems to spend most of its life in the fashion industry being the dubious second cousin of someone’s stepmother.   All these frelling mail-order yarn sites that keep sending me come-ons never have good greens.  And then . . . there’s a green that I’ve had my eye on, which is pretty much the right colour, which is to say a slightly variable, self-evolving green, and it’s from a good brand, but it’s half acrylic and I’m already a natural-fibres snob, barring things like catering to allergic hellhounds.  And last week it went on sale.  The only reason I hadn’t already bought it before I found out I was going to a party in London on Monday was because I hadn’t got round to it yet.  And then when I found out I was going to a party in London on Monday I thought . . . I might make it to that yarn store everyone thinks is so wonderful.  Maybe I should wait—just in case I see the yarn—the sale goes on a few more days . . .

            Sometimes your unjust deserts are at least a little bit earned.‡‡

 * * *

* Her official title is ‘benefice coordinator’.  Eeep.  

** I admit that it’s taking longer to regain its senses this time than usual.  

*** Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that I was out rescuing idiot hedgehogs at 3 a.m.  And tweeting about it.  

Once a week is ENOUGH.     

†† Sic.  It was hot.  And there’s nothing hotter than walking on city pavement with nothing but city pavement, city overpasses and city walls around you. 

††† And possibly the best thing about it is the dog.  Well, I would think so, wouldn’t I?  

‡ Some enchanted evening

When you find your true love

When you feel her call you

Across a crowded room

Then fly to her side

And make her your own

Or all through your life you may dream all alone

   Once you have found her

   Never let her go

   Once you have found her

   Never let her go

 

‡‡ Ahem.

‡‡‡ Although speaking of  earning, while this yarn is clearly fabulously more wonderful than the half acrylic on sale, IT ALSO COST THREE TIMES AS MUCH.^  I’d better be one hell of a clearly fabulous knitter when I tackle it.

^ Manos del Uruguay is one of those names to conjure with although this is my first exposure to it.  http://www.artesanoyarns.co.uk/Manos%20Del%20Uruguay/manos%20del%20uruguay.html

And this is mine:  http://www.artesanoyarns.co.uk/Yarn%20Pages/manoswoolclasica.html

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