Sunday, January 23, 2011



Don't say a freaking word... my neighbour is currently out the front of my house trimming back the bits of the wattle that hang in front of the driveway.


While clearly this is an indication that the poor dude has FAR too much time and energy on his hands (and I would argue, energy best used for crochet) I dare not go out there in case he gets embarrassed and stops. Boo Radley style. Particularly if Boo Radley has a penchant for pruning other people's bushes. Erm. And not in the way that your mind jumped to (though it occurs to me that it was this false-assumption that formed part of the premise for the novel... but nevermind).


I am busy making baby blankets for the new baby-additions to my group of friends. Unfortunately (somewhat) this requires commitment, and in some capacity, planning, as I am to get these finished prior to the kid's 18th birthday.

So one of the blankets I am making in a disgusting, fuzzy soft baby yarn. I don't mean disgusting as in it is vomit coloured, or some such, just that I am a great devotee of the good ol' 8ply, and fuzzy, boucle, bubbly, furry, feathery and otherwise fancy yarns irritate me a little.
So while this blanket looks very sweet and soft, and feels lovely to crochet with, I am not entirely satisfied with it, in as much that I feel like it is not something I would actually make, had the yarn not been $1 a ball at kmart. Which, as it happens, also makes me sound like a complete tight arse.


He just raked the dead leaves up. Not just from the front, but the side as well.

Subsequently, this is the most relevant picture I could find:

from epic wtfs...which is how I'm feeling
Thanks, neighbour!

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