First, the good news: the consultant thinks I don’t have cancer. (And that’s about as good as news gets, to be fair.) It’s three months since she gave me her initial, tentative diagnosis, and so it was back to Inverness hospital last week for a checkup. This, of course, involved another chance to get intimate with the probulator (I think that’s the technical term), the slender articulated metal rod with a camera on the end which goes up one nostril and is then fed down into the throat. It doesn’t hurt, though it is cold and uncomfortable, like being attacked by an octopus who’s been assimilated by the Borg. It’s the sort of thing they use in The Matrix to remove bugs implanted in people (I checked my medication when I got home but none of the pills were red, so I’m afraid we’re stuck in the simulation a little longer).
Washed ashore
The bad news is, the growth on my vocal cords is still there. This is a bit disappointing, as we’d all been hoping it might’ve got bored by now and gone away. But at least it hasn’t grown, and the consultant reckons it’s a granuloma. (This was a new word to me, as indeed are most words relating to the human body, and most of her explanation went so far over my head it collided with the Hubble space telescope. But as I understand it, she thinks a combination of acid reflux and constant coughing/ throat-clearing has inflamed my vocal cords and caused the growth.) She doesn’t believe it’s cancerous, or anything to worry about, and so long as my voice holds up her advice is to let it be. I go back in six months for another probulating and we’ll take it from there.
Distant rain
Meanwhile, one knits. The white gansey is almost finished, just the final cuff to go. Incidentally, I’ve decided to dedicate my declining years to knitting up as many of the “uncharted” gansey patterns of Caithness fishermen from the Johnston Collection as I can. Now, here’s a frightening thought (if I can say this without tempting Fate): if I carry on knitting ganseys at the current rate, and I and my beleaguered eyesight are spared, by the time I’m 70 I will have knit another 40 ganseys. (Hmm. Could this be Fate’s way of encouraging me to buy more yarn? You know, I think it is!)
In parish notices, Judit has sent us more cracking photographs, this time of a gansey in a rather fetching red. It’s going to be a present for a very lucky person. And the pattern is a little off the beaten track: it’s from Rae Compton’s book (pages 45-46), taken from a group photograph on Sheringham promenade: a gansey worn by James “Jim” Dumble, a very neat combination of double moss stitch and ladders alternating with an open diamond. It’s not one of the better-known patterns, though it should be; the books are full of great pattern charts, all just waiting to be knitted up and brought to life, as Judit has done here. So many congratulations to her, as ever, and thanks for sharing.
Further signs of Spring
As for my health, a bit like the joke about not starting any long books, ganseys do rather need you to be there for the long haul. So I’ll end with another very old joke, about the optimist who fell off the roof of a tower block: as he passed each floor on the way down the workers heard him saying, “So far so good… So far so good…” Well. Who can say what the future holds? But—and this is important—so far so good…
According to the Anglo-Saxons, March comes in “adorned with rime, passing through middle-earth with hail-showers”—rime here meaning frosty, not that everyone went around reciting poetry for thirty-one days. They also called it hlyd-monath or hraed-monath, stormy month or rugged month, which seems about right. Not this week just past, though: it’s been lovely, (mostly) blue skies (when it’s not been cloudy) with warm, gentle breezes (except when blown in off the freezing cold ocean). It actually feels like spring, which just goes to show that God likes a joke as well as the rest of us, given the forecast for this coming week is adorned with rime, passing through middle-earth with sleet- and snow-showers.
Creels & lighthouse
One of my favourite Old English terms is bóc-cræftig, “book-crafty”, or learned. They didn’t have a word for archivist, though, or archive, which doubtless explains why they were conquered so easily by the Normans in 1066. Interestingly, they had to borrow their word for history, stær, from Latin and it meant, not historical events as such, but the telling of those events, the story. (Other than history, stær could also refer to both a starling and a stare; possibly the cause of much confusion if a taxidermist ever gave you a “hard stær“.)
Cuff detail
The Old English for yarn was, of course, gearn (pronounced the same way). But the Anglo-Saxons didn’t have ganseys, nor did the Vikings, which may be why dragon-head motifs feature so seldom in the old photographs. I’ve finished the first sleeve of my own gansey, including the cuff, which is another Wick stunner. It uses 4-stitch cables cabled every fourth row, alternating with plain stitches bordered by purl stitches; and while it may not be as ornate as the lace cuffs in the Wick trees-and-diamonds pattern, or as functional as standard knit 2/ purl 2 ribbing, it still draws the cuffs in to the wrist every bit as successfully. It’s a very elegant solution which also crops up in other Wick photographs.
Teal
April was known as Ēaster-mōnath for obvious reasons, but only presumably because the Anglo-Saxons didn’t have a word for wheelie bin. It makes you wonder what Beowulf did with his grass clippings, and how often Hearot District Council came round and emptied the bins (“Hey, there’s an arm in here!” “Oh yes, sorry, that’s Grendel’s mother; we got into a bit of a barney last night.” “Look, mate, don’t you read the leaflets? Organic waste goes in the brown bin”). Hana Videen, in her fascinating book on Old English The Wordhord, points out that not only was there a word for weather—weder—which has come down to us more or less unchanged, but also for “un-weather”—un-weder; something which, after a decade of living in the far north of Scotland, I’d very much like to try one day…
I get a lot of spam email via this blog, most of it from China, most of it rather optimistically suggesting I could improve my sales with a better web design. Occasionally I’m approached by people looking for an outlet for clothing—mostly harmless stuff like bags or woolly hats, though I was tempted by one this week offering me discount bullet-proof vests; the seller had evidently done his market research and so had a pretty good idea what daily life in Wick was like. But I was genuinely delighted to receive an email the other day from a Mr Sauron representing a Chinese shipping company. And I thought: you what? You mean the Dark Lord wasn’t defeated after all, but instead has taken up a new career in sales?
First catkins of spring
Now, I know what you’re thinking: you’d expect the embodiment of ultimate evil to pop up in banking, if anything, or possibly real estate—well, that or the [insert name of political party of choice here] Party—but a modern corporation is probably the perfect cover. Or would be, if it wasn’t for modern HR developments…
“My Lord, the creature Gollum’s been captured.”
“Excellent! Take him to the dungeons and torture him to find the location of The Shire.”
“Er… We can’t. Sorry.”
“Why in middle earth not?”
“It contravenes our Harassment in the Workplace policy.”
“What? You mean it specifically forbids torture by the rack?”
“Yup. Section 4, paragraph 7. Just after the bit about not swearing at people.”
“Oh, for f—”
“Precisely.”
Gone fishin’
“Oh, very well. At least tell me the ladders are ready for the siege of Helm’s Deep.”
“Oh, they’re ready all right…”
“Good!”
“We just can’t use them yet.”
“?”
“We have to do a risk assessment: it’s in the Decapitating at Height policy. And there’s another thing.”
(Wearily) “Go on.”
“Well, your plan to cover all the earth in a second darkness has been ruled out.”
“What the actual? And note I didn’t swear just then, though I am being pretty explicit on the inside.”
“Light pollution. Not to mention it’ll play merry hell with our environmental targets.”
“At least tell me our sales are on schedule.”
“Afraid not, squire, I mean sire. Your latest ad campaign’s been rejected by Marketing.”
“Oh, come on! What’s wrong with it?”
“They rather feel that “Nine rings for mortal men doomed to die” isn’t exactly the most alluring slogan for your line of jewellery…”
First daffodils of Spring
But let us draw a veil over the sorry scene. As for the (presumably) real Mr Sauron, I did find his sign-off a little creepy: “I’m always here for you”—something I normally expect from the ghost of Obi-wan Kenobi, or possibly Winnie the Pooh, but from a sales rep not so much…
==================================
TECHNICAL STUFF
So I’ve started the first sleeve. As ever Margaret’s done a sterling job translating the original into a workable pattern. I’ve said before that the original is very fine, and if I tried to replicate the pattern exactly it would be over seven or eight inches long (i.e., too long). So we’ve compromised to achieve something that captures the flavour of the original but doesn’t dominate the sleeve. You’ve got to pay attention, too, because the alternating tree and diamond patterns are very easy to mix up if your mind wanders, as mine does, if you can call it a mind. Anyway, we’re over the worst for now, and can freewheel down the sleeve all the way to… (insert ominous organ chords here) the cuff.
The wind’s been wild this week, gusting almost every day between 45-55 mph—March doing quite a lot of coming-in-lioning, and no sign yet of any willingness to go out lambing. It’s lucky we got the roof fixed when we did, and possibly luckier that the scaffolding’s still in place, just in case any more slates decide they want to go off and see the world. Speaking of wind, I was delighted the other day to come across the concept of the Japanese Wind Weasel, or Kamaitachi—a Yokai, or spirit, also known as the Sickle Weasel because it rides the wind and has long claws like sickles. In Japanese folklore they are responsible for the deep cuts people sometimes get when out walking in strong winds. They usually hunt in threes: one to knock you over, another to make the cuts, and the third to apply a salve to stop the cuts bleeding.
Waves near the Trinkie
Now, while I’m always happy to blame a malevolent spirit for any bad thing that happens to me—for instance, I assume there’s a capybara Yokai that nudges my elbow occasionally and causes me to poke myself in the eye with a knitting needle, and a Hospital Parking Stoat that arranges for the last space in the hospital car park to be taken just before I get there—I can’t recall ever having been sliced and diced on a windy ramble. Maybe they only operate in Japan. When I’m out walking in Caithness I’m more likely to be afflicted by the Runny Eye Hamster, which makes my eyes water in a stiff breeze, or the Damp Socks Duck.
. . . and waves on South Head
On the plus side, given we live in a mechanistic universe which is governed by cause and effect (and malevolent spirits), the wind has kept me indoors and I’ve filled my time knitting. This is why I’ve made so much progress this week: I’ve finished the back and joined the shoulders, and have picked up the stitches around the neck for the collar. As I said last week, this gansey is for show, not to be worn, so I’ve stuck to the traditional collar without any shaping (and which also means the centre yoke pattern isn’t truncated on either side). It’s an amazing pattern, and I should probably retire after knitting it—this feels like it’s about as good as it gets.
Seat with a View
There are of course hundreds of Yokai in Japanese folklore. For instance, it’s believed that inanimate objects come to life and develop into spirits after a hundred years, such as the Kasa-obake, which is an animated parasol. (I’d like to think these creatures get together for jolly musical evenings, like the singing utensils in Beauty and the Beast.) Others are one-trick tricksters: Makura-gaeshi is a spirit that rearranges your pillows while you’re asleep, while creaking floorboards are caused by small demons called Yanari, which, let’s face it, explains a lot. My favourite is probably Teratsutsuki, which is where lingering resentment is transformed into a woodpecker, which would certainly liven up trips to the psychiatrist. I’m less convinced, though, by the Nekomata, which are cat-demons responsible for unexplained poltergeist activity (objects being moved, things disappearing), since in my experience that’s what’s properly called “owning a cat…”
I am, I have come to realise, a haunted man. By actual ghosts—though not the sort that helped Stephen King put his kids through college. These aren’t unclean shades out for vengeance, or even, like Scrooge’s, trying to make me a better person. No such luck. Turns out I’m haunted by the spirits of Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin and Mr Bean, ghosts whose primary motivation is to engage me in a pratfall, and then slink off back to the nether regions, sniggering. Actually, now I come to think of it, there are worse ways to spend eternity.
Fulmar ensconced at Castle Sinclair Girnigoe
Take the time at work last week when I was due to give a presentation. I reckoned I had just enough time to make myself a cafetière coffee if I was quick. But first I had to open a new bag of grounds. I didn’t have time to get the scissors, so I energetically applied myself to tearing open the bag instead. Normally this takes quite a lot of force, but on this occasion one of my persecuting sprits—Charlie, say, or possibly Buster Keaton—had already weakened it, so that when I pulled at the bag it exploded, enveloping me, the sink, the counter, and several passers-by to a radius of about five metres in a shower of coffee grounds. Undaunted, I scooped up what I could, moving the cafetière out of the way over by the wall-mounted soap dispenser. I hastily added hot water to the coffee and left it to sit while I frantically cleaned up the mess.
Snowdrops by the riverside
And while the coffee is brewing—and doesn’t it smell delightful, with a piquant note of something unusual and hard-to-place—let us turn our attention to the gansey. I’ve finished Side A, so we can finally see the full yoke pattern, and very splendid it looks. The natural, cream-coloured yarn is ideal for showing up this sort of detail, and there’s a lot of detail to see with this pattern. I’m knitting this one for show, not to wear, so I’m going for a traditional non-indented neckline, and both sides will be identical.
Suspicion
And as for the coffee? Well, I expect you’re already ahead of me. When I came to pour it out I noted quite a lot of froth, but put this down to it being a fresh bag. (When coffee is roasted, carbon dioxide is trapped in the beans; this is released slowly over time but adding hot water speeds up the process, and the fresher the grind the more CO2 there is. This is why fresh coffee has a bloom or froth.) It was only when I went to drink it several minutes later, choked, and hastily regurgitated most of it back into the cup like a penguin with an upset tummy feeding its young, that I perceived my mistake. The soap dispenser on the counter is motion-sensitive, and when I’d placed the cafetière beneath it earlier had deposited a substantial dollop of soap into my coffee. I could swear for some minutes I had bubbles coming out of my ears. And that sound I could hear when I finally stopped spluttering? It was Charlie Chaplin and Stan Laurel, giggling from somewhere beyond the veil…
First, the good news: the consultant thinks I don’t have cancer. (And that’s about as good as news gets, to be fair.) It’s three months since she gave me her initial, tentative diagnosis, and so it was back to Inverness hospital last week for a checkup. This, of course, involved another chance to get intimate with the probulator (I think that’s the technical term), the slender articulated metal rod with a camera on the end which goes up one nostril and is then fed down into the throat. It doesn’t hurt, though it is cold and uncomfortable, like being attacked by an octopus who’s been assimilated by the Borg. It’s the sort of thing they use in The Matrix to remove bugs implanted in people (I checked my medication when I got home but none of the pills were red, so I’m afraid we’re stuck in the simulation a little longer).
