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…
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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…
April is the cruelest month, according to TS Eliot. He was of course wrong: it’s February. January goes on forever but you get through it, wrapped in a hazy leftover glow from Christmas, and then you think, Well, at least February’s short, and then it’s practically spring, how bad can it be? And every year the answer is: pretty bad. Rain, snow, sleet, hail, gales, hurricanes, tornadoes, and in the immortal words of Dr Peter Venkman, “Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass hysteria!” In short, February sucks. I bet Eliot originally had February down as the cruelest month, except it didn’t scan.
We lost quite a few tiles off the roof over the winter, so last week the builder put up scaffolding so he can go up and replace them (though having grown up on too many westerns every time I hear the words “they’re building a scaffold” I get a sudden urge to skip town). It’s a huge construct of poles and planks, so that the side of our house now resembles a pocket medieval cathedral—though, with a rather pleasing touch of irony, they’ve not been able to actually start work yet because of all the ongoing gales and snow. I remember back when we lived in Northampton we lost a roof tile in a gale which landed smack on our car, parked in the street a little way away, doing a considerable amount of damage. It was just like one of the severer trials of Job, if Job had owned a natty red Nissan Micra, and had it wrecked by a roof tile which had blown off the top of his tent.
In parish notices I’m delighted to highlight another splendid gansey by Judit, this time in a very fetching shade of green. It’s the classic “Vicar of Morwenstow” pattern, one of my favourites, which uses simple light and shade to create distinctive blocks of colour, like looking at an aerial photograph of alternately ploughed fields, or, of course, a chess board. We ran out of superlatives long ago for Judit and her many ganseys, so this time I’ll just say many congratulations again to her, and many thanks for sharing it with us.
Surely it must be Spring?
My own gansey project is growing steadily. I’m pacing myself. (I nearly wrote, “because ‘measure twice cut once’ is my watchword”; but since it’s obvious by now that my watchwords are “close enough for jazz” and “will this do?”, on reflection I’d better not push my luck.) It’s a complicated pattern that requires concentration, so I’m taking it slowly. But the natural yarn shows it up a treat, a real Sunday best gansey in every sense.
And now, and with one eye on the events unfolding in Eastern Europe, I’m going to end with a classic Chinese poem from the Tang Dynasty, by the poet Li Qiao (lived 644-713). It’s called Wind, and—spoiler alert—it’s not just about the weather:
In autumn, leaves blown from trees, In spring, flowers opened in blossom; Passing over the river, a thousand-foot wave, Passing through the bamboo forest, ten thousand poles are bent.
I’ve been contemplating some pretty weighty matters this week. For instance, how did Darth Vader blow his nose? And what happened when he sneezed? In Return of the Jedi, when Luke takes off his helmet, you can see he clearly has a nose. Obi-Wan says that he is “more machine than man”, but I bet his sinuses were organic. Where did he keep his hankie? I’m not seeing a lot of pockets under that cloak—did he have a handbag for his car keys and spare change for when he felt like a packet of crisps from the Death Star vending machine? Maybe that little box in front of his mouth, which I always assumed was a harmonica the Emperor had thoughtfully fitted inside the helmet in case Vader ever felt like joining in a Blues session, was in reality a box of disposable tissues? So many questions; and that’s before you consider “bathroom emergencies”.
Jaunty pied wagtail on the harbour wall
And then there’s Batman, though of course he has a few other problems. For instance, if you look carefully you’ll notice that every incarnation in the role since Michael Keaton wears black eyeliner under the mask, otherwise he’d have a ring of pink around the eyes. But when he takes his mask off, there’s no eyeliner. I assume he keeps a stick on his utility belt along with the shark repellant and grappling hooks, for emergencies or maybe if he just feels like going clubbing. Or consider the Batmobile: it seems to be fitted with a jet engine and afterburner that shoots flames out the back. But imagine innocently pulling up behind Batman at a red light—when it went green and he floored the gas pedal you’d be incinerated.
In parish notices, Lee has finished his “Aran Islands Gansey”, which we featured a few weeks ago. Lee has kindly sent us some pictures of the gansey at rest and also being modelled, next to the celebrated curragh. Many congratulations to Lee on what looks to be a cracking gansey, and may it bring him many happy (and warm!) hours of—what exactly? Paddling? Rowing? Curraghing? (Lord, more questions…)
Waves crashing in on North Head
The Darth Vader/Batman questions also apply to astronauts. Imagine being the first man on the moon and finding yourself unable to appreciate the awe and mystery because you have an itch in your nose you just can’t scratch. Or sneezing and then missing the view because the inside of your helmet was spattered with *stuff*. And as for toiletry considerations, the early pioneers of space flight had to, er, fly by the seat of their pants. Some wore condoms—luckily they were all male—or else just went in their suits. On one test flight the astronaut Alan Shepherd had to do just this, leading to the immortal radio message to Ground Control: “Well… I’m a wetback now…”
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TECHNICAL STUFF
Yoke pattern – side panels
This is another gansey inspired by a photograph from the Wick Society’s Johnston Collection of old photographs, that of the fisherman Fergus Ferguson. I say inspired by because it’s not an exact replica. This is for two reasons: because the original, as ever, was knit to a much finer gauge than I can manage with my big, fat archivist fingers, and also because it’s been scaled up to fit me and not a slim Scotsman with the unfair advantage of a waist and Hercule Poirot moustache. Or sometimes it’s matter of preference. For example, on the lower body of the original, the zigzags mirror each other; I prefer the look of having them all running up the same way. I used a three-stitch moss stitch between the zigzags, where the original was slightly different. Anyway, Margaret charted out the pattern, and then we had a bit of back-and-forth to customise it to my tastes.
I’m knitting this one with some of Graeme Bethune’s lovely gansey yarn (or, to use his trading name, Caithness Yarns). It’s very soft. I shouldn’t be surprised, but so far I’m using up about as much as I’d expect to use with Frangipani. White is a great colour for these intricate patterns, especially in winter; because not only does it show them up superbly, but also I can actually see what I’m knitting for a change! I can’t tell you what a difference it makes.
I actually started this way back before Christmas, just a row or two each night, as a break from the darker ganseys I was knitting, and because once it was established the lower body required next to no concentration. I timed it so that I’d start the yoke just as I finished the dark navy project, so alas my slacking days are over now we’ve got to the fiddly bits.
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?
