Warning - long, long, long post.
Initially this post was mainly to confess how I woke up on Sunday morning and hit the cat across the head.
Well, the night before it was just too much effort to persuade [bad] Shrimp to come out from under the bed when it was time to sleep, so I gave up and left the door open, figuring that she'd sneak out in the night. Which she did, but of course she could also saunter back in when she felt it was breakfast time the next morning. Early the next morning. The current fun game is to pounce on anything that either moves, or shows itself under the (very light summer) duvet and so she kept attacking my feet - you know it's hard to stay still and ignore razor sharp claws for any length of time even if you empirically believe that lack of attention should make her stop. Eventually I gave in, and dramatically swept the covers back across the king-sized bed to get up. In the process, I walloped the other poor mog, who'd also crept in but who was peacefully snoozing alongside me on the bed and scared the crap out of myself in the process. Poor Twiglet.
But a couple of things have got me a little worried, or a little peeved, or confused. Or something.
It's mainly wondering how I got to be the incarnation of Crazy Aunt Purl's forthcoming book - "Drunk, Divorced and Covered in Cat Hair: The true life misadventures of a thirty-something who learned to knit after he split". God I cannot wait to read it. I already know it's going to make me laugh and cry, very very much.
Lovely Ting said something one day about how it's cute that my blog is all about my cats (she almost undoubtedly didn't say precisely that, but that was what I heard) and that made me think:
- Oh.
I may be becoming a crazy cat lady.
And then I thought:
- But isn't it a bit early for that?
and settled back on the sofa, flanked by a cat or two, with my knitting, or more recently, crochet* to watch some tv.
You see, I'm getting very into Grey's Anatomy. Loving it. McDreamy, McSteamy, George, the whole lot. But I must take issue with something that peturbed me greatly. In the two eps that aired tonight, Meredith is having yet another crisis and so she takes up knitting. Or rather Izzie is knitting something she claims she's going to substitute for Meredith's crap efforts - but Meredith is supposedly knitting a sweater on enormous broomstick needles which looks to actually be a large piece of stocking stitch - a scarf, perhaps - but the point is, the point is, the point is that Meredith takes up knitting because she's becoming celibate after repeatedly screwing up with men. She's sitting in the bar and the barman tells her she has to stop knitting because she's scaring off the customers. Then the nurse at McVet's asks her how she's getting on with learning to knit, and when did she give up men. She's basically knitting to avoid, and indeed distance herself from, any male attention. Because men stay away from psycho knitter ladies. Particularly ones with cats.
Now I know that's crazy talk. But a lightbulb went off in my head. I realised I may be knitting myself a divorce. And a security cordon. I've been thinking a lot about the amount of crafting I've been doing and how important it has been to me over the past turbulent months. It's been a relief (or, as I mistyped, a "relife") to be able to take time to knit, crochet, dressmake, create, keep my mind and hands occupied and have a tangible object at the end of it. If I'd been working, while I'd have had a different focus (and also some financial security), I think I might not have handled things 'so well' because I don't know if I would have had anything that I could have literally picked up and said 'Yes, I made this' I have talents. I can do things. Subtext - I can get through this. I can sort myself and this mess out.
I've admitted before that crafting has been how I've been keeping myself semi-sane up to now (can you tell that serenity may be about to disappear?) mainly because I've met a lot of wonderful knitterly people and it's been a lifeline, it and the people it's introduced me to have become a regular part of my social life. Somehow it feels like it's almost cheating because none of these people know XH. A new life, new start. That's another reason why I love London - it's big enough to reinvent yourself without even changing your postcode. I can tell these people I've had a crap time or the divorce is getting me down or whatever, and people are simply sympathetic. There's no 'poor XH. We feel for him too." It's unconditional. The support is just for me. Nobody asks 'Are you at fault at all?'
Am I immersing myself in crafts to avoid the real world of job-hunting and house-hunting and no-more-Tuesdays-at-Foyles, doing a Meredith and trying to maintain a distance from reality? (Apparently the world out there has men in it too, I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid of men or work. Men at work. Working with men. Not working. No men. Meeting a new man.)
And then there's the blog too. A non-knitter, non-blogger friend asked me with that slightly wary look, 'Why do you have a blog?' and of course the answer is 'It's cheaper than therapy". I am very grateful to all the wonderful people (the friends from the real world, and the 'imaginary friends' from the virtual world) who have encouraged and supported, cajoled and pacified me, sent care packages and come out for cocktails. It's been a whole different life for me in the past year but I'm glad to have 'met' new people who've made it that much more interesting - even if some times I wonder 'Why would you care about what I'm saying on this blog? Doesn't my whining drive you mad? Do you think I'm funny or just in need of medication? Actually, is there anyone out there at all? Oh god, am I blathering into empty cyberspace??' I've been thinking about this a lot because of an email I got the other day. I've done a couple of interviews lately, one for an American newspaper's St Patrick's Day edition about Irish crafters, and I was interviewed for a piece in the Guardian about refashioning clothes and dressmaking. Then I had a rather unexpected request: if XH and I would like to be in one of the broadsheet supplements, in a feature where two people who have separated both give their side of the story. I have to admit that I was flattered that I'd been asked, as they are "always looking for interesting and articulate subjects' but I realised that I wasn't interested in having my story told in that way, and I wondered who would want to bare their souls like that and what their motivation would be.
Then I thought about it a little more and realised that while I'm not 100% open, I do talk about this sort of thing on the blog without much caution. I might not say it in person to a friend but ironically I'm happy to stick it up here and let it exist as a sort of adjunct to my existence. A very open secret. It's like purging your soul to a diary, but crisp white paper , much as I love it, doesn't give you constructive feedback. There have been a few posts recently in blogland about reading, commenting and lurking. I'd like to say thanks, again, to everyone who comes to visit here. Please leave a comment because I'd love to know who you are. I'm going to make an effort to reply to all my comments - been a bit slow at this recently - and I'd encourage you to leave comments on blogs when you read them - because it's important to make those connections. For both the reader and the author.
I'll be out of blogland for a while, not expecting to have internet access when I'm in Ireland. Attending a wedding, seeing some people I haven't seen since my own wedding, gulp. Gearing myself up for the househunt and the job hunt. The crunch time really has come. No more hiding behing the yarn, changes are inevitable. The decree nisi is due any day now. I'll look forward to seeing what you though of this rambling epistle when I return! Well done for getting this far...
* I caved and started over. Longer, no mistakes (so far) and up to 'gift' standard. What was I thinking with the first one?? It's barely a scarf! It's being ripped. The second one might become a lap rug for me if I've got enough yarn left over. I love Cotton Angora, btw.
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