Monday, 2 May 2016


For odd periods of my life, I have been too busy to pick up a paintbrush or wield a needle.
With my new responsibilities as a teacher, now is one of them.
But whenever Carolyn and I have met up over the years, we have taught each other crafts. 
We were meeting up at Bank Holiday and I was not going to be defeated.
I would bring the gear to do microwave silk painting (don’t ask).
Carolyn would supply the kit to crochet an owl.
Crochet an owl.
“You do crochet, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.  Of COURSE I crochet.”
Carolyn has always been (as TS Eliot once said of Ezra Pound) il miglior fabbro.
Her silk scarf turned out vivid and dashing.
However, when I attempted the owl, I kept accidentally adding in more stitches.  Soon my crochet could no longer be viewed even as an obese owl.  It had taken on the characteristics of a fruit bowl.
Looking at me almost cross-eyed with concentration, Carolyn leant over and said gently,
“Why don’t you stop now?  You can have my owl.”

Thank you, Carolyn.

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