The Jetsetter Pouches

I've been so wrapped up in this internet malarkey, I omitted to tell you about Belfast. Actually, I've been so wrapped up in this internet malarkey that I've forgotten Belfast. Distant memory, my friends.

But I did make us these matching purse-sized makeup bags so that we would fit in at the swanky hotel.

Once we flashed these around a bit we got special treatment everywhere. The only downside to our VIP experience was the bedding situation:

As chaperones at my middle school dances would have said, 'Leave room for the Holy Ghost'.

I was very much looking forward to the rose-strewn king feather bed (I might have gone so far to taunt some of my mum friends on Facebook about it), but unknownst to me Ruth made it to the hotel first and asked to be switched to a room with single beds. Can you believe this? She bed-blocked me. But obviously, once the receptionist had been asked for single beds I couldn't go back and say, 'Well, actually....' without appearing to have nefarious intentions.

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The Lone Ranger

I'm off on a solo trip tomorrow to visit my friend Ruth in Belfast. And look where I booked us to stay for the first night...


Jealous? You haven't even seen the rooms yet. Do you think Ruth will like this sort of thing?

Genuine picture of a room. Not jesting you.

I'm not sure. I'm definitely trying this though.


I think she will enjoy that. If this sort of thing is wrong I don't want to be right.

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The Incentivist

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Cathy made me a delicious two course meal to reward me for not babysitting her kids. This was not because I am a terrible babysitter and need to be rewarded for staying away from other people's kids; I have read about 100 Babysitter's Club books so I am clearly well-qualified. I was supposed to sit for them and spent the weeking running up to the big day commenting on all of Cathy's foodie pins on Pinterest with 'The babysitter would like this for her starter', 'The babysitter would like this for her main', 'The babysitter would like this for her dessert'. I tell you, guys, being my friend in real life is seriously under-rated.

Because she is a better woman / cook / all-around-human than I, Cathy did make me black bean enchiladas and pumpkin biscuits. And when my babysitting credentials were not required due to Gustaf's last-minute illness (not nerves relating to my babysitting skillz, you cynics) she brought my my feast anyway. How awesome is that?

Fast-forward to my birthday, Cathy stepped up to the plate to babysit for us so we could go to the concert and resent our humdrum lives because by rights we really should be rockstars. And because she liked the last needle roll I made, I thought she deserved one too.

Especially as she actually babysat my kids.

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The Redundant Pouch

Even excluding present company, all the best birthdays fall in the last week of August... my Dad, my best friend from university, the object of my obsession, and Friend Sarah.

After the success of last year's capacious make-up pouches, a request was put in for a smaller model. Ostensibly, it's for her handbag; rationally, it's because she doesn't need that much makeup.

Using my body as inspiration, this pouch has a flat bottom. Also like me, it's able to stand up by itself.

I have it on good authority (Friend Sarah texted me) that it has already been trialled and deemed sufficient. I have very stringent quality control though, and have secured a night out tonight to confirm.

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The Death Roll: now with less alligators

Remember when I said 'if you geek me I will geek you back'? I should have added a caveat that I might take so long you'd be tempted to hate me.

Approximately sixteen years ago, Louiz sent me some lovely fingerless gloves that she knitted after I bleated on and on about my Raynaud's disease and consequential non-functional purple lobster hands. Although I had every intention of returning my affection in a timely fashion, I hemmed and hawwed for ages on what to make her. As far as I am aware, she doesn't have silly schoolgirl crushes like me and Apryl so Viking Vampires couldn't be involved in my gift. She is a respectable woman.

Finally, I felt so terrible that I hadn't gifted her back that I decided to make her a needle roll in her favourite colour purple. Knowing nothing about knitting (as evidenced by my illustrative use of paint brushes in the pictures above), I perused lots of tutorials to see what sort of features should be included. Dimensions that will accommodate needles? Check. A variety of different sized pockets? Check. Rollable? Check. Tie-able? Check.

Being a innovator, I decided to add some vinyl pockets at the bottom for these mysterious things called 'stitch markers' and whatever smaller knitting notions one might have. I was impressed with myself for thinking of such a handy feature. It turns out that there's a good reason why other people don't add vinyl pockets to their needle rolls: because it's evil to sew. But not as evil as me for leaving Louiz hanging so long.

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A Cassette Hoodie for the Asian market

Lest you conclude from my blog title that I have been racially profiling my hoodies, I should probably clarify: this hoodie is going to a specific customer in Asia. Although as a continent, Asia would probably approve.

In fact, there's not a single continent I can think of that wouldn't like this hoodie. Antarctica would probably want thinsulate inner-lining though. Don't worry, I have enough.

Although the customer lives in Hong Kong, she used to live in Edinburgh and has had the pleasure of my company on several occasions. Shortly after we visited her house for the first (and last) time, she announced she was emigrating. There's probably no link.

If you're here for the sewing rather than my random wittering, let's discuss how cool these sleeves are.

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The White Trash Adrenalin Junkie

Well, I survived the hen weekend (although my liver might not concur) and it'll take me about three weeks to catch up on sleep. It wasn't all hijinks and shenanigans though, it involved some serious business in the form of rock climbing. I've been outdoor climbing once before in Vermont and I LOVE IT AND I'M CONSIDERING GIVING UP MY FAMILY, MY HOUSE AND MY BUSINESS TO DO IT PROFESSIONALLY. Obviously, totally viable plan. Look, my spotter isn't even paying attention, that's how good I am:


Of course, I can't leave you with the impression that I am just a clean-living sports fiend. I can also do white trash. This was the theme, people, not my default party attire.


Jennifer (the hen and my soon to be sister in law), said, 'OMG, you look so American!!' Sorry, Americans.

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Belfast: The City of Broken Dreams

Pretending to sight-see

There was coffee, there was shopping, there was cider, there was food, there was an open fire, there was champagne, there was a shower without bystanders discussing my body, there was sleep, there were chick flicks. There were no children.

Not pictured: person with bad haircut

With hindsight, we did these things in the wrong order. Shopping first. I bought 14 pairs of tights from glorious Primark. I did not get a pair of feety PJs because Ruth and Sarah are no fun whatsoever. Let me repeat that: I did not buy the feety PJs I've been obsessing about for at least 15 months. Ruth is a very dignified person and as such I did not give her the hard sell. Friend Sarah, however, was teetering on the edge of feety PJ heaven. If only the shopping was preceded by this:


Friend Sarah does occasionally have good ideas, and Aspalls would fall in that category. Alas, had we partook and then shopped we would have spent the weekend in cow and tiger suits. The human brain cannot even cope with how euphoric this situation would have been. Instead:


I jest, obviously. Of course Sarah is still allowed in Belfast, and if not granted the keys to the city she at the very least deserves the keys to the Tayto Factory.

The weekend away: already a long distant memory.

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Warning: Not Suitable for Work. Unless you work in Belfast, then it *might* be.

Friend Sarah and I are off to Belfast tomorrow to visit the jointly-cherished Ruth. I have it on good authority that it's rude to visit a friend's new house without bringing a house-warming gift. Especially if the house is no longer new because you have been remiss in visiting. For two years. Better late than never, right? But what to bring...

I was first pointed in the direction of a slightly vulgar wall hanging by Millie, and I came so close to buying the one she has that says 'Feck It, Sure It's Grand' in the style of Keep Calm and Carry On. I wavered though, because that's just not Ruth. But what is? This:

Oh, how I laughed and laughed and laughed the first time I heard her say this. When googling it's entymology, apparently it's a Belfast thing. Have you ever heard a better phrase? Here's a tip from me to you: If you're having such a bad week that having a smear was one of the highlights, do something like this. I stayed up late on Wednesday, printing it over and over in different fonts. The only disappointment was that Steven never asked what they were for, because I was going to tell him I was going leafleting. Unfortunately, I can't have such joys in my house with an (almost) literate son. I told him it said, 'Welcome to Our House'.

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OMG YOU GUISE

Edinburgh's second coolest person

So on Friday night me and Friend Sarah wore our matching dresses and we were treated like celebrities and we didn't even need to do a choreographed dance or anything. That sentence is like two thirds true and one third lie.

Don't worry, I still have 12 inches of hair. I'm not sure where it is.

I was so distracted by our collective awesomeness (and also the awesomeness of Strawberry and Lime Cider) that I even forgot to try on Ruth's new glasses.

See? Nothing to worry about. The hair is back.

Just when I didn't think the 12 year old friendship experience couldn't get any better, it did. After posting our night out pics on Facebook, I only got commissioned by my friend Amber to make her a cowl dress. That's right, Amber. The original coordinating-outfit-friend from when we were twelve years old. I'm thinking we should totally put on our matching dresses and visit her brother, just like we did before. Except now he's not a day old infant, he's at university. And now I'm officially old.

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Why you should be my friend in real life. Or not.

My beloved friend, Ruth, is visiting Edinburgh this week from her native Northern Ireland and we'd have such fun hanging out. It's surprising I have any friends at all, because I'm always promising to make them stuff and never get around to it. But not this time!

I made Ruth a rather large make-up bag which will probably remain empty because she's so pretty she doesn't need make-up. She can instead fill it with Tayto's as people in Ireland are wont to do.

And a coordinating phone cosy. She does need that one, so she can call me all the time to discuss how much we miss each other. It's lined in flannel so everytime you put the phone in or out it gets a little clean-up.

And I also attempted to return to the good graces of Friend Sarah for not getting her a birthday present by making her a makeup bag too. Also superfluous. You know how everyone's mum tells them they don't need makeup to look good? Friend Sarah's mum was right.

And a phone cosy for her too!

And one for me, obviously. We meet up in town last night to celebrate our new make-up bags and phone cosies.

Ruth's husband should be a professional photographer. Look how he's centred that wine bottle right between my bosoms. Or maybe a paparazzi as the flash has made my shirt transparent.

This picture is scientific proof that my personal happiness is directional proportional to my proximity to Ruth. Do you know how you can tell that you have very, very good friends?

They indulge your fetish for trying on other peoples' glasses.

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The day I participated in the Edinburgh Marathon more than I planned

This is my good friend Liz. She is the mother of these two poppets:


Yesterday morning, Liz got up early, had a hearty breakfast, dressed in her exercise clothes and lathered herself in sun cream. She put on her sensible and broken-in running shoes. She was ready to run the marathon.


Yesterday morning, I got up early, didn't eat breakfast, put on a corduroy dress, eschewed sun cream, and put on shoes that I bought the evening before. I was ready to watch Liz in the marathon.


My original bus was late so I must have missed Liz at the start of the race. Being tenacious, and keen to show Liz my Good Friend Credentials, I started walking to get another bus to a later section of the race so I could catch her there. I walked eight miles before finding a bus to get on. Dropped off at mile twenty, I patiently waited an hour and a half in the blazing sunshine with my Crimson Sunburn of Death before spotting my friend. My camera wouldn't turn on but she heard me cheer. 'Thank goodness,' I thought, 'Now I just have to find a bus to get home.' Limping along in my brand new shoes, sporting blisters on top of blisters on top of blisters, I walked all the way from mile twenty to the finish line at mile 26.2 before finding a bus to get on. Some days I am made of Fail. But at least I can give Liz this commemorative poster to celebrate her achievement:

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