Plague of locusts.

I’m sure you all understood that the plague of locusts in the basement would be metaphoric. No actual locusts, just a string of irksome and annoying little things, that, much like locusts, are no big deal individually, but together are a paralysing disaster.

For starters, I have a splinter under the fingernail of my right index finger. (The finger otherwise known as “The finger that it turns out I use for everything in my whole life all day long”) The splinter is not serious, the splinter will not harm me in any way…its only impact on my life is to provide a little stab of pain every 2-7 seconds all day long. (I can’t find the stinking tweezers)

This wouldn’t bother me too much if it wasn’t for the drilling in the back of the house. Now, I’d be the last person to complain about the back of the house. The back of the house is even starting to look like the back of everyone else’s house. I’m thrilled and happy that the back of the house is coming along, I just wish that the drilling noises didn’t coincide with the stabbing finger thing.


Once I’d accepted the stabbing and the drilling and the phone…(did I mention that everyone in the whole world called yesterday during the three hours I was trying to sit and work?) I really didn’t have many problems. Oh…except the hat I was knitting.

What hat? EXACTLY. I knit the better part of a hat yesterday until I discovered that the stabbing, drilling and ringing had apparently thrown me off my game a little and I was knitting a hat with a 31 inch circumference. (A little note to help you understand the freak show locust hat size: Joe has an enormous head. It is so large that when I tell people how big it is they suspect that I don’t know how to use a tape measure. Joe’s head is 25 inches around.) See the pretty hat? Feel the rising blood pressure?


Never mind. I’m sure I can comfort myself with a little mitten knitting. I knit the red flowers, and made my way merrily about 5cm up the green and white hand. Where is it ?


Don’t ask. Apparently the whole enormo-hat thing caused some sort of brain damage and I didn’t centre the pattern on the mitt. Ok. I didn’t even try to centre the pattern. Actually, I screwed up the red flower border too and forgot to do the black braid at the top. This photo represents only what I was able to redo after the locust invasion.

Now normally, I’m a pretty relaxed person. That’s a lie. I’m never a relaxed person, but normally I have a pretty good grip on real life anyway. I understand that these things happen. Some days just have real teeth to ’em, and you just have to accept that there will be days when there is stabbing, ringing, drilling, enormo-hats, whacked mittens and poor outlooks. I’m ok with that. I don’t like it, but it happens. I am as a rock in the river. I should just let this flow over me.

And I would…except for that it is 17 days until Christmas. There is no room for error. There is no time for mistakes. This is the Precision-Operations of knitting. I must rise above the locusts set in my path. I must not be thrown off by the stabbing, ringing, drilling, enormo-hats and mitten retribution. I know how this goes. Today I restore order. Today…

Today I find the tweezers and take it one step at a time.

A little note to whoever is responsible for deciding to drown my blog comments in spam over the last two days:

In the interest of you not wasting your time and me not wasting my time, lets clear a few things up. I don’t play roulette and I don’t know what “Texas-hold-em” is, but I assure you that I don’t want it. I don’t need to diet, and I wouldn’t buy drugs from you if you were paying *me*, furthermore, if I did want to make a health decision, I assure you I wouldn’t think to myself, “Hey, didn’t my blog comment spam offer me medical advice the other day? How convenient”. While God and I are not on speaking terms, I understand that he probably wouldn’t like you sending me bible verses with imbedded ads for what we shall politely refer to as adult toys and extra curricular activities. I hope he smites you. I’m not balding, I don’t do that with my pets (and I think we can all agree that there is something very, very wrong with you and your suggestions.) I’m no prude, but I can tell you that I think better of women than you do and would prefer that if you must demean them (though this is probably why you were alone last night) with filth and poor taste that you do it somewhere where a feminist ain’t paying the bills, baby. Finally, nobody here feels inadequate about their penis size (though sometimes we wonder what you are trying to prove) and can rise to the occasion without any guidance, concern or email from you. Please stop offering, it’s offensive.

In conclusion, I’m going to offer you one more piece of advice. I will never, ever, no matter how desperate I become, or how convenient it may be, or how many times I see the word “busty” purchase anything from someone who is really, really PISSING ME OFF.

I bet your mother cries when she thinks about what you do for a living. Get your arse of my blog and better yourself.