Knitting again
Having lost my last handmade scarf (bringing my total lost scarves to one per year exactly) I ventured to the far-off distant land of Queanbeyan. At least five minutes by car, across the territory border. Over there, they have exotic goods like car tyres and discount synthetic wool.
Found a lurid greenish blue, and also picked up some thread. I need thread, because the parental unit that drove me to this distant land of affordable petrochemical products had decided that today was the day of surprise sewing machine.
The sewing machine fulfils many duties. It has seven bajillion functions, and thus is a nifty gadget for me to break play with endlessly. It is effeminate, and thus helps to allay my mothers fears of my having a spinal cord. It also solves the graduation present argument, which has gone as follows for several months.
Me: Book!
Mother: Jewellery
ad infinitum. Very glad that everyone is happy. The machine is an American brand, so it comes with this redundantly rad service promise. Lessons, and maintenance, and replacement parts, and on-phone consultation. I haven't checked yet whether they'll wipe my brow while I watch the machine toil over my buttonholes for me, but I'm sure it's in the fine print somewhere.
Was deposited at my parents house, and paid $16 by an ever-confused and confusing father to play with a four-hole-puncher while drinking tea and watching "Once More With Feeling" while my metal-loving brother looked awkward and tried not to gouge his own ears off.
Came home to find that one of my fics-that-must-not-be-seen-by-anyone-that-knows-me had been proofread by an admin member of a site. They listed several required fixes before publishing, including the correction of the word "fug", which left a warm feeling in my belly. I haven't been given an official reprimand for using a real word since Year 12, where I had to take a history teacher and "de-sacralised" to the library's copy of the Oxford.
Not a huge thing, by any accounts, but enough to remind me of the days when I could truly shake the system, even if the system was just a barely-graduated History major and a very confused elderly librarian.
Found a lurid greenish blue, and also picked up some thread. I need thread, because the parental unit that drove me to this distant land of affordable petrochemical products had decided that today was the day of surprise sewing machine.
The sewing machine fulfils many duties. It has seven bajillion functions, and thus is a nifty gadget for me to break play with endlessly. It is effeminate, and thus helps to allay my mothers fears of my having a spinal cord. It also solves the graduation present argument, which has gone as follows for several months.
Me: Book!
Mother: Jewellery
ad infinitum. Very glad that everyone is happy. The machine is an American brand, so it comes with this redundantly rad service promise. Lessons, and maintenance, and replacement parts, and on-phone consultation. I haven't checked yet whether they'll wipe my brow while I watch the machine toil over my buttonholes for me, but I'm sure it's in the fine print somewhere.
Was deposited at my parents house, and paid $16 by an ever-confused and confusing father to play with a four-hole-puncher while drinking tea and watching "Once More With Feeling" while my metal-loving brother looked awkward and tried not to gouge his own ears off.
Came home to find that one of my fics-that-must-not-be-seen-by-anyone-that-knows-me had been proofread by an admin member of a site. They listed several required fixes before publishing, including the correction of the word "fug", which left a warm feeling in my belly. I haven't been given an official reprimand for using a real word since Year 12, where I had to take a history teacher and "de-sacralised" to the library's copy of the Oxford.
Not a huge thing, by any accounts, but enough to remind me of the days when I could truly shake the system, even if the system was just a barely-graduated History major and a very confused elderly librarian.