“I Didn’t Mean to Buy Sock Yarn … But I Did”

Friday

Friday began with a soft hum of chores—just enough to clear the decks. Then I wandered into town for something new: a nail appointment. Not a ritual yet, but perhaps the beginning of one. Since changing roles, I no longer wash my hands a hundred times an hour, and I’m starting to believe that pretty nails might actually stand a chance. On the rooftop carpark, I paused to take photos—first the mural, then Caroline Bay, and finally the snow-draped mountains in the distance. They felt impossibly close, like they’d crept forward overnight to greet me. My photo doesn’t quite capture it, but in that moment, they were almost touchable.

I’ve been meaning to photograph the mural for ages, but there’s usually a lineup of cars guarding it like sentinels. Friday, though, the view was clear—just me, the whale, and a sky full of blues. Everyone knows I’m drawn to that colour, and maybe that’s part of the pull. Or maybe it’s the whale itself, swimming through flowers like they’re coral. It felt like a small gift, catching it unobstructed, as if the town had paused just long enough to let me see it properly.

Caroline Bay was looking splendid. The blue waters mirrored the sky above, while the greens and the bustle of the port brought the whole scene to life. Down on the footpaths, people wandered in the sunshine, adding warmth and movement to the view. In the distance, the majestic Southern Alps stood tall—the snowy backbone of New Zealand—draped in their winter overcoats and glowing in the morning light.

Although they seem distant in the photo, in that moment the mountains felt impossibly close—larger than life, like I could reach out and scoop up a handful of snow. It was one of those tricks of light and air, where the world rearranges itself just long enough to make you believe in something magical.

On my short walk to the nail salon, I passed by the coffee shop and its mural.

I had time, so stopped for a look. There’s something quietly quirky about it—a woman with oversized glasses cradling her coffee or is it hot chocolate? She is surrounded by butterflies, birds, and a jungle of potted plants. It’s fun, unexpected, and just the kind of visual detour that makes a short walk feel like a story.

And just look at that blue sky.

*

At the nail salon, I was greeted by a young man I’ve seen often. The staff are from Thailand and speak little English, but kindness doesn’t need translation. I know he’s a good nail tech—once a month, the team volunteers their time at my work, offering free manicures to the ladies and gents. The women even get to choose a polish colour, a small luxury gifted with care.

What followed was an hour of quiet attention—soaking, trimming, a quick hand massage, and layer upon layer of careful painting. When he finally looked up and said, “All done—do you like it?” I admired the result. He had perfectly reproduced the design I’d shown him, and I was tickled, delighted, and so very grateful. 

I’d chosen blue, of course—my favourite hue, the colour of skies, seas, and quiet strength. The design featured the cutest little dragonfly, delicate and full of charm. The design wasn’t just about colour or sparkle. It was a quiet nod to the winged creatures I’ve always adored: bees, fairies, dragonflies. There’s something ethereal and magical about them, the way they hover and flit, never quite still, always dancing with the breeze. Whether it’s a shimmer of wings or a hint of iridescence, I love that my nails can carry a whisper of that magic. It’s like wearing a tiny spell on each fingertip. He painted it with such care, each stroke deliberate, each detail precise. I hope they last a while. He put so much effort into them, and I left feeling not just polished, but quietly uplifted. A small act of artistry, a hint of magic shared across languages, and now carried with me into the weekend.

*

After the nail salon, I made a quick stop at the supermarket before heading home. Lunch was early and simple, and then I settled in to knit the afternoon away. The Pixie Bootie pattern was challenging, to say the least. The instructions called for two needles, but I tried four, then three, then two again—none of it seemed to help with the looseness of my stitches. Still, I persevered and made it all the way to the pointy toe before casting off with a quiet sense of triumph.

Next came the delicate task of pulling out the provisional cast-on without losing those tiny stitches. I managed to catch them all on a needle—just—and began knitting the top of the bootie. I completed one leaf before it was time to head off to visit Dr D, the chiropractor. A crunch at the end of the afternoon.

Not such a big crunch this time. Time is healing the wound, and the days off have helped—even though I’ve kept busy with chores, both indoors and in the garden. There’s been a noticeable improvement. Dr D was happy, and so was I. Instead of the usual two or three days, it’ll be a whole week before I see her again. That’s a massive boost, and a quiet reassurance that things are shifting in the right direction.

*

I got home just as Tony was preparing to head out. He’d come in while I was away, swapped his work wear for something more comfortable, and was getting ready to fill the car for Saturday’s road trip. I parked my wee car and hopped in beside him, and off we went into town to fuel up the big gas guzzler.

On a whim, we stopped in to see our friends John and Ange at their shop. They were just about to close up for the day, and before we knew it, plans had shifted—we decided to go out for tea together. It was spontaneous, relaxed, and full of good conversation. We didn’t get home until bedtime, and it was the kind of unexpected evening that leaves you smiling as you kick off your shoes. An unplanned but gentle end to the day.

*

Saturday.

Saturday began without an alarm clock, but I had a very important date to keep. Chookyblue was all geared up for a Zoom gathering with the Chookshed Stitchers—it was Jellyroll Day. I didn’t have a Jellyroll to sew, but I’d promised to join in anyway. By just before 8am NZ time, I was ready and waiting, cup of something warm in hand, looking forward to the chatter and stitching energy that always fills the virtual room.

I only had an hour to spare before Tony and I climbed into the car for our road trip, and I was determined to make the most of it. I pulled out my ripple blanket and began to hook the shell edging—the final flourish, the last of the border rounds. Each stitch felt like a small celebration, a nod to the journey this blanket has taken with me. The yarn flowed through my fingers as the Zoom chatter hummed in the background. What a lovely way to start the day.

*

Then it was time to climb into the gas guzzler and head north—Christchurch bound for a shopping trip. I was on a mission to find some very special fabric for a very special quilt. The day was glorious: sunshine spilling across the road, and the mountains looking majestic once again, their snowy peaks gleaming like quiet guardians.

Traffic was light, and we made good time. I couldn’t find the exact fabric I’d hoped for—Batiks, it seems, are becoming harder to source here in New Zealand—but with a little help, I found a beautiful alternative that matched the bundle of fat quarters that I’d brought along.

 Mission (mostly) accomplished.

Next stop: a yarn store. And gasp! Shock! I picked up more sock yarn. 

I didn’t mean to buy more yarn. Honestly. I don’t know how it happened, but that colour—It's like a raspberry crush—was just too lovely to leave behind. It’s not blue, but it’s soft, squishy, and full of promise. I could already see it becoming something cozy, maybe even more Pixie Boots (as if the current one hasn’t tested me enough!). It was a quiet indulgence, tucked into the day like a warm hug in skein form.

I also spotted some Trio needles at the knitting store—those clever little sets that sit somewhere between double-pointed and circular. I was tempted… very tempted. But I held back (for now). Has anyone used them? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Are they worth the switch? Do they make sock knitting smoother or just fiddlier in a new way? Tell me everything. The good the bad and the plain ugly..

*

Tony doesn’t do shopping. He’s patient, yes, and good-humoured in short bursts, but by now he’d had enough. With a quiet but firm declaration—“Time for home”—he steered us toward the car, the raspberry yarn tucked safely in my bag and the wind beginning to stir. I didn’t argue. The weather forecast wasn’t looking great, with winds predicted to exceed 140km per hour as the day wore on. Tony was keen to get on the road and back to Timaru before things turned wild.

Strangely, the air was still in some places. Trees and grasses barely moved unless a vehicle passed by, stirring them into motion. But in other stretches, the wind was fierce—trees bent in sudden gusts, and we could feel the car being pushed around. We didn’t envy the drivers of campers and trucks, who must’ve felt every buffet and sway. And the winds were not yet at full predicted force.

It takes about two hours to get from Christchurch to Timaru. As we drove, the sky darkened—not dramatically, just enough to make us wonder what the evening might bring. We could see that the Nor’Westerly winds had been busy melting the snow on the mountains. The peaks that had looked like iced cakes in the morning were now showing their bones—less frosting, more grit. It felt like the land was shrugging off its winter coat. A quiet transformation. 

*

On the way home, I was messaging with Debbie. She’s home alone this weekend—her husband is up in those very mountains, helping a friend set up his caravan for summer. I don’t envy them tonight; it’s meant to be wild up there, and the wind’s already making itself known. Anywhooo, Debbie joined Tony and I for dinner this evening. I made fish and chips (using my Fish in Parmesan Crust recipe—shared on the recipe tab if you're curious), and Debbie brought along a beautiful fresh salad. It’s been quite a while since we’ve had the chance for a proper chat and catch-up. Debbie’s started a new job in a different facility, still within the same company. As it turns out, my new role is her old job. Serendipity at its finest

*

And now, it’s almost bedtime. The wind hasn’t arrived here—yet—but the day has been full enough. If you’ve read this far, thank you for joining me on the journey. I’d love to hear what your Saturday held—whether it was stitchy, stormy, or simply still. Leave a comment below and let’s catch up.

Windy Weather and Woolly Goings On.

With seven days off I hope to document what I get up to each day. 

We'll see if I stick to plan or chase squirrels

Wednesday. 

Wednesday dawned dry and clear, the kind of morning that promises order and ease. I moved through my chores with quiet purpose. Grocery shopping was next on the list, so I headed out beneath a still-bright sky, the sun warm on my shoulders as I stepped into the supermarket.

But when I emerged, the day had shifted. The air was suddenly thick—hot, humid, and heavy with change. The sky had turned a brooding grey, and a restless wind had begun to stir. I loaded my bags into the car quickly. The wind was strong enough at the lights to make the car shift a little—definitely not the same calm morning I’d started with.

By the time I reached home, the wind had picked up and the temperature and humidity had climbed. The sky had darkened, low and grey, hinting at rain but holding off for now. Looking out of the kitchen window as I unpacked my bags I saw the cherry tree’s branches moving with the wind, petals torn loose and dancing across the garden. I feared I wouldn’t get the chance to stand beneath its branches and listen to the bees going about their business as the wind might steal away all the blossom.

After a quick lunch, with the weather growing wilder still, I settled into my armchair and let the afternoon unfold in stitches. Outside, the wind rattled the roof iron and stirred the garden into motion, but inside, it was bootie time. I got busy, needles clicking softly, the Pixie Wine yarn running between my fingers, the rhythm familiar and soothing. Mistakes from the first attempt had been noted, forgiven, and lessons learned.

Mid-afternoon, I took a break to make a cuppa and whip up a batch of my chocolate and coconut slice. This time, I added a tweak. I’ve had a few ideas of my own, and a friend suggested one or two more—so I’ll need to revisit my recipe page and note the variations as I try them. Wednesday's twist was peppermint; I stirred it through and then popped the mixture into the fridge to set.

After lifting my needles again I made good progress, the bootie growing row by row.  But later as I was greeting Tony, my attention wavered, and I pulled the wrong needle. Not the empty one—no, the one loaded with twelve precious stitches. Just like that, they all dropped. Oh no! I scrambled to gather them back onto the needle, fingers fumbling. Somehow, I managed to rescue them, and carried on, completing the next two rounds quickly. Phew. Not perfect, but not a disaster. I had reached the point where I needed to turn the heel, I'd need peace and quiet for that part, so I tucked the knitting away in its bag.  Besides, it was time to turn my attention to dinner. Butter Chicken was next on the agenda, so I donned my apron.

Once dinner was cooked and eaten, and the kitchen tidied, we treated ourselves to a taste of the chocolate and peppermint slice. Yum—definitely a keeper. The mint came through clean and cool, just the way I’d hoped. With dishes done and the evening settling in, we took our places in our chairs. I picked up my crochet and let the evening unfold with TV and stitches.

Before bed, I completed a full border round in a soft cherry blossom pink—delicate and cheerful, like spring stitched into yarn. I folded the crochet gently and tucked it away, ready for the next round when the time was right. A quiet finish to a day full of wind, booties, mint slice, and small wins.

Thursday. 

During the darkness of the night, I woke more than once to the sound of the wind still blowing. It thrummed through the iron chairs on the deck and made the halyard clank against the flagpole—a restless rhythm that tugged at sleep. But as dawn arrived, the gusts began to ease, and things began to settle.

Tony and I watched the sunrise as we cooked and ate breakfast, the light spilling softly across the kitchen. Outside, the cherry tree was still dressed in its pink blossoms, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Later our neighbour sent through her annual photo, taken from her kitchen window—a quiet tradition now, marking spring’s arrival.

In the photo, you can see the smaller cherry tree in the foreground on the right—a different variety that flowers a little later, just after the big one has shed its petals and begun to leaf out. They stand like quiet guards at either end of the greenhouse, marking time in blossom and shade. That’s our kitchen window, overlooking the garden. From there, we watch over the greenhouse and the veg beds. Soon, hopefully, there’ll be a second greenhouse to keep an eye on—a quiet expansion, the chilli house.

*

Once Tony had left for work, I turned my attention to the day. No chores, no baking, no errands in town—just a quiet stretch of time that was all mine. I picked up my knitting sticks and returned to the bootie, the heel waiting patiently. I took my time, checking and rechecking that each needle was in its proper place. By lunchtime, the heel was turned, and the bootie had taken its next step forward. It’s not my finest hour, but it’s progress—and no repeat of the previous days near disaster, and I’m one step closer to a finished bootie. Time for a break.

Grace and I exchanged emails, comparing our progress. Her sock is coming along beautifully—striped in soft blues and peaches, with a crisp white heel. It’s lovely to share the journey, stitch by stitch, even from afar. There’s something comforting about knowing someone else is counting rows and turning heels too.

*

After a quick lunch, I stepped outside to check the garden. The wind had all but gone, leaving just the gentlest breeze to stir the bunting on the deck. I stood beneath the flowering cherry and listened, thousands of tiny bee voices humming above me, with the occasional deeper rumble of a bumblebee passing by. The daffodils had taken a beating in the wind, so I picked the damaged ones and brought them indoors to a vase. There’ll be plenty more soon.

Then it was time to plant. I folded newspaper into seedpods and tucked in dwarf beans, nestling them beside the seedling trays in the back porch. Everything got a good drink, back outside I pulled a few weeds and decided it was time to return indoors.

*

Then a quick visit to the kettle for a fresh cuppa, and back to my chair and my yarn. Outside, the breeze stirred the bunting just enough to remind me it was still spring. Inside, the rhythm returned—hook, loop, sip, repeat.

As I sat knitting rounds, adding a foot to the bootie, the weather turned—and turned fast. One moment the garden was basking in a gentle breeze, bunting barely stirring, bees humming in the cherry tree. The next, clouds rolled in like a curtain call, and the light changed. I watched it happen from the comfort of my armchair. Rain and hailstones began to fall, growing heavier and louder. The wind rose again, and pink petals blew past the window like snow borne on the wind.

As the drama unfolded outside, the bootie grew inside, round by round, the Pixie wine yarn looped together and lengthened toward a toe. Each stitch holding the next, just as the pink petals had bloomed on the tree, now my yarn was blooming on my needles. 

Tony came home and told me about his day—he was lucky, catching a window between downpours to drive home. I worked to a convenient stopping point, marked it on my pattern, and laid my needles to rest. Then into the kitchen to create chow mien for tea. The evening promised another round of crochet, a different rhythm, a different tool, but the same quiet satisfaction. 

*

Wow, I wrote a lot. If you’ve made it this far, consider yourself officially weathered and worthy. I’d love to hear what stitched itself into your day, or which colourway caught your eye. Drop a comment below—rain or shine, your words are welcome here.

Dispatches from the Department of Catchups and Creative Maybes

A recent knitting squirrel that I chased right to the end was the Dad scarf I made for my brother. It was a joy to knit—soft, soothing wool in shades of grey and blue, each row stitched with quiet intention. The colours reminded me of stormy skies and seas, and the scarf came together like a memory of island Winters unfolding. He’s a grandad now, which made the gift feel even more special—something warm and thoughtful for a man who’s stepped into a new chapter with quiet grace. 

I haven’t sent it off yet; it’ll be packaged up alongside the scarf I made for his wife, ready to arrive in time for Christmas.

*

As the Northern Hemisphere drifts into autumn’s embrace, we in the South are stepping gently into spring, with summer not far behind. The evidence is all around—especially on our flowering cherry tree. I looked out the window today and saw it in bloom, delicate petals catching the light like confetti tossed by the wind. Already the bumble bees are visiting, their fuzzy bodies weaving through the blossoms. Soon the honey bees will join them, drawn by the promise of nectar and the rhythm of renewal.

I love to stand beneath that tree and listen to their industry above me—the gentle hum of thousands of busy bees.  It’s the music of spring, stitched into the air like a quiet anthem of purpose.

*

Between boat repairs and child wrangling, the skipper’s been at it again—Jiffy Jonathan’s cord collection has yielded another masterpiece. This time, a dog lead, braided with purpose and the kind of love that loops gently between hearts, hands and paws.

Made at the request of his lovely lady Josephine, it’s more than a leash—it’s a quiet tether of care, woven and knotted with love. Mostly black, but flecked with tiny hints of pinks, golds, and blues each one a soft reminder of the hands that tied it, the heart it was made for, and the dog who’ll walk beside them.

It’s a good, solid lead—tightly braided and built to endure. The paracord weave is firm and purposeful, with knots that speak of experience and care. You can see the strength in its structure: the kind of lead that won’t fray at the first tug or buckle under a sprint. It’s made to last, with a brass clasp that catches the light and promises reliability. Not just sturdy—it’s steadfast, ready for muddy tracks, beach walks, and all the loyal pulling that comes with a dog who knows where she’s going.

*

With three border rounds now wrapped around the ripple, I find myself at a pause—where colour choices feel like mood swings in yarn. Shall I go bold, go soft, or hand the decision to Tony, the random colour selector?”  He’s known to delve deep into the basket with genuine randomness, though sometimes he picks and pokes with quiet deliberation, as if searching for the shade that’s been waiting to be chosen. I'll keep you posted and include up to date images later in the week.

*

Technically, I have a week off. Practically? That depends on whether the phone behaves. I’m treating it like a truce—me, the ripple blanket, and a few days of not being needed. Unless, of course, someone decides I am.

*

With a whole week off (technically), I find myself surrounded by a constellation of projects, each twinkling for attention. The ripple blanket is whispering from beside the armchair, but it’s not alone. There’s a very important quilt waiting to be born—stitched with purpose and a lot of love. Drawstring bags are queued up like polite party guests, suggested, but not promised, if they materialise they are destined for the drug trolley at work where they’ll corral inhalers and rescue space from the overcrowded drawers. The Christmas ornaments are still mid-magic, and somewhere in the mix, one bootie is already on the needles, quietly hoping its partner will be cast on before the next Winter. I’m spoiled for choice, truly—and while I’m not exactly sprinting through the stash, I’m meandering with purpose, picking up threads where I can. Brimming with ideas and possibilities. And let’s not forget the list of WIPs—those loyal companions half stitched and hopeful, and of course the squirrels that are sleeping, curled up in the corners of my imagination, waiting for their moment to leap.

*

Thanks for reading along as I catch up on a few things. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me about your crafting plans, your creative pile, or whatever’s quietly waiting in the wings.

Weekend Whispers and Birdsong Beginnings

Thank goodness for weekends—two whole days off. Yay! It’s been a stretch, what with extra shifts and orientation days, but I made it. We’re here. And what a lovely feeling it is to wake without the electronic melody of my alarm clock. No 5:30 summons, no mechanical chirp nudging me into motion.

Instead, Saturday and Sunday greeted me with nature’s own chorus—birds singing the dawn into being, soft and sure. Still early, yes, but not early-early. Just enough time to sip a quiet cuppa, stretch into the day. 

Saturday was meant to be greenhouse-building day—weather permitting, of course. The early morning skies looked promising, but before I could finish my cuppa, an email from Chooky arrived: an invitation to join the Chookshed Stitchers for a Zoom catch-up.

"You do it, love. Spend some time with the girls," said Tony. "It’s been a long time since you did that."

I didn’t need telling twice.

Cuppa in hand, I settled into my chair with my crochet, ready to ripple away the morning. We chatted as we stitched—knitting, sewing, hooking—sharing progress, new starts, and gentle encouragement. I ducked out briefly to peg the washing on the line, then returned just in time for another round of “Who’s doing what?”

When asked how much more I had to go on my ripple blanket, I held it up for the girls to see. “Depends,” I said, “do the stripes run horizontal or vertical?”

The consensus: let the ripples run vertical and call it big enough. Time for finishing touches.

OK, suits me. I decided to complete the current coloured row, add a final chocolate ripple, and begin the border rounds. Soon after, we said our goodbyes and drifted back into our Saturdays—each of us carrying a little more stitch, a little more story.

After a gentle start to the day with the Chookshed Stitchers, Tony and I turned our attention to a few indoor chores. I was mid-bed-making when I heard him call out— “It’s raining!” I glanced out the window and saw that the beautiful sunshine that had greeted me at dawn had vanished. The sky had clouded over, and raindrops were already dotting the garden path.

I grabbed the laundry basket and dashed outside to rescue the washing. As I hurried down the footpath, the rain turned to hail—sharp, stinging stones that bounced and rolled beside me like escaped beads. Some were surprisingly large, landing on my arms and hands with a bite.

Despite the sudden turn in weather, most of the washing had dried nicely in its short hour on the line. Only Tony’s work trousers needed a stint on Gran’s trusty airer. The rest was folded, sorted, or added to the ironing pile—mission accomplished, if slightly dampened.

With the weather putting a firm stop to any greenhouse building, we turned our attention indoors. A few more chores were ticked off the list before Tony announced he was making a cuppa and settling into his chair for a while. Sounded like a fine idea to me.

I followed suit— mug of red berry tea in hand, ripple blanket at the ready. I suggested we watch a couple of movies while the day unfolded gently around us. And so, we did. The hours slipped by in quiet comfort as I finished my final ripple rows and began adding chocolate borders to the blanket. A restful day, stitched with warmth and shared stillness. While squalls of rain and hail passed by overhead.

After a quick and easy tea of homemade pizza, we carried on just as we had—another cuppa, another movie, and more crochet. I continued working on the chocolate border rounds of my ripple blanket, letting the rhythm of the stitches match the gentle pace of the evening.

By the time I was ready to pootle off to bed, the blanket—with its first two completed rounds of chocolate border—was starting to look finished. Not quite done, but definitely edging toward its final flourish. A satisfying sight to end a quietly productive day.

*

Sunday started much like Saturday—I awakened to the sounds of birds calling their dawn chorus. But unlike Saturday’s gentle pace, this morning came with a sense of purpose. The grandchildren were coming.

With enough time to start the day slowly, I savoured that first cup of tea and the peace and quiet before the children arrived. Another beautiful morning—so another load of washing went onto the line, bed linen this time, catching the breeze while I turned my attention indoors.

The jigsaw puzzle was moved off the table, making way for plates and platters. Veggies were peeled and prepped, and a chook was popped into the oven to roast its way toward lunch. The birthday gift was wrapped with care, and the cake—crafted and concealed—was tucked safely out of sight, ready for its grand reveal.

And now the children have been and gone. The whirlwind has passed, the crumbs have been swept away, and I’m enjoying a much-needed sit down in the quiet with another cup of tea.

The birthday boy adored his gift—a dinosaur-shaped truck that was raced down the garden path so many times I’m sure its wheels are begging for a rest. We played with chalk on the patio and sang happy birthday when the cake made its grand entrance. Roast chicken was devoured with gusto—Torstein and Grandad each claimed a leg, picked up with fingers and chewed with delight. He does love to copy Grandad. Next they had cake and ice cream, a ritual as old as Torstein.

Their Sunday ritual continued as always: loading the dishbasher together. I’m quite sure it’s less about helping with the dishes and more about pressing the buttons. Of course, Grandad loves it too.

No pictures of Torstein with his gifts or cake—he’s shy of the camera these days—but I did sneak a few at the dishbasher. That quiet teamwork, side by side, says more than any posed photo ever could.

Of course, I love that Grandad is teaching him how to be part of the tidy-up and help out in the kitchen. It’s more than pressing buttons—it’s learning to contribute, to share the load, and to find joy in the everyday. When he’s bigger, I hope Grandad will teach him the fine art of potato bashing and the proud tradition of carving a roast. These are the quiet lessons that hopefully will stick and help to make Torstein a good, son, husband, Daddy and Grandad in his own lifetime.

After making sure the dishbasher was properly loaded and humming along, Grandad and Torstein joined the rest of us outside. We sat on the deck in the sunshine while the children played, their laughter drifting across the garden like birdsong. It was one of those simple, golden moments—sun on our faces, tea in hand, and the quiet joy of watching family unfold around us.

All too soon, it was time to say goodbye. Everyone piled into the car after a flurry of hugs, kisses, and heartfelt I love yous. Grandad handled the car seat—thank goodness, because that contraption is far too complicated for me! There were final goodbyes, high fives, and one more kiss. A last happy birthday and a shouted I love you echoed down the driveway as they drove away.

So now the house is ours again—quiet, clean, and gently humming with the sound of the washing machine. The placemats and tablecloth are taking their turn in the suds, ready to catch a bit of breeze on the line. Just one pair of Grandad’s work trousers left to iron, and then the remainder of the day is mine. To ripple, to sew, or to knit—that is the question. And whatever I choose, it will be stitched with care and wrapped in the gentle magic of another weekend well spent.

Oh, and another cup of tea of course. 

How has your weekend been? Did it bring a bit of sunshine, a dash of chaos, or a moment to sit quietly with a cuppa? I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to—feel free to leave a comment below and share your own weekend rhythms.

The week that is unravelling.....

Monday arrived with good intentions and a to-do list longer than a skein of yarn. Chores were tackled, town errands dispatched, and eventually I was able to sit with my knitting. 

It started well. The yarn behaved. I completed a few rounds, I was cruising.

And then—the mistake.

I spotted it on the next round and tried to tink my way back, gently and with hope. But the more I tinked, the more mistakes I made. It's not easy tinking out K2Tog on 2.75mm sticks. One or two expressive words may have escaped (I won’t name them, but they rhymed with "glugger" and “knit”).

Eventually, I admitted defeat. The mess was beyond redemption. So I did what any seasoned knitter with a sense of drama would do—I ripped it out. I frogged the whole thing. Watched the rows unravel like a slow-motion confession.

It wasn’t a failure. It was a reset. A reminder that even on a day off, perfection is optional and progress is sometimes disguised as a do-over. So, I restarted. 

And here you see where I got to on my restart. I have to say, I’m actually happy that it was necessary. The new version is much neater than the original and will hopefully remain so. Sometimes the frogging is part of the ritual—a quiet reset that leads to something better. No Pixie Wine coloured yarn yet, just the leafy green and that magical waste yarn crochet foundation. 

I’d love to get back to my knitting soon, but the weekend’s looking full—weather permitting, we’ll be building a second greenhouse. The big one’s still going strong and will house twelve tomato plants come summer, but we’re adding a smaller one just for capsicum and chilli peppers. There’s nothing quite like watching Tony’s face light up over a proper hot chilli, so this new space is really for him, so I can keep him supplied with my Evil Chilli Chutney.  If all goes well, I’ll be elbow-deep in preserves in a few months—jars lined up like trophies, each one a spicy little victory.

Sunday will bring its own kind of whirlwind, with our usual visit from the beautiful grandies. They keep us on our toes—inventing games, sharing stories, and reminding us that energy is a fast renewable resource if you’re under ten. Oh, and we will be celebrating Master Torstein's 5th birthday so I'll have to produce a birthday cake! With diggers or dinosaurs, or something! By the time they head home, I may be too tired to knit, but the heart will be full and the house a little brighter for it.

Hopefully, once the grandies have headed home and the house settles into its evening hush, I’ll have just enough energy left to ripple away mindlessly on my blanket. No counting, no fuss—just the quiet comfort of yarn moving through fingers, one soothing triple at a time.

Speaking of the ripple, I added a lovely violet row last night—soft and steady, just before bedtime. Rather than push on, I decided to spend a little time burying yarn ends. It’s a task I actually enjoy, so long as the numbers stay reasonable. A dozen or so is fine—almost meditative, like tidying up after a good story. But if I leave them too long and they start multiplying like weeds after rain, then I get fed up. Best to tackle them before they become weeds.

Those snipped threads may be destined for the bin, but for a fleeting moment they’re a tapestry of colour—violet, aqua, and deep chocolaty browns tangled together like a secret celebration. Each one carries the memory of a row completed, a choice made, a quiet triumph stitched into the ripple.

Thinking about the weekend..

Saturday’s forecast isn’t looking too flash—they’re predicting another southerly front, much like Wednesday’s. That one rolled in with thunder and lightning right over the top of work, loud enough to rattle windows and scramble the call bell system. I found myself dashing through the rain, checking on cottage residents who had no idea their call lights were glowing like storm lanterns. It only lasted twenty minutes, but it made its presence known. Later, as Tony and I cooked dinner, we watched another front blow in—darker, moodier, and full of promise. This time it brought hailstones, brief but dramatic, before the whole thing blew over as quickly as it came. If Saturday follows suit, we won't be outdoors building anything. I just might have time to knit. 

So, what does this evening have in store? 

Dinner’s eaten, the dishes are done, and even the ironing’s out of the way. The evening is mine at last. Now the only question is: do I pick up the needles or reach for the hook? Either way, it’s time to settle in and let the yarn decide. I have one more work shift before our busy weekend, so it won't be a late night.

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