Laugh all you want and cry all you want and whistle at pretty men in the street and to hell with anybody who thinks you're a damned fool!
How many knitters would admit to spending the best part of their lives, struggling through a complex patterned, over-sized sweater for the ‘One I loved’ that another may well be wearing now? It is literally, wearing your heart on your sleeve. Don’t worry. We have all drank too deep at the foundation of emotional depth and despair and lived through the hangover. God knows, my knits may be well worn around the block. Speaking of hangovers, the sun is shining bright in Ireland, so officially it’s okay to drink during the day. All is well with the world again. Brace yourselfs; these mutterings are a crude attempt at correlating early evening boozing for something meaningful.
I have fallen in love...again. Okay, he is a bit older, a bit of an 80’s icon, a mecca for women of the literary world and he is fictional. Rupert Campbell-Black, literally fell out of my sisters book shelf (upper wardrobe space, hopelessly overfilled with bags, rubbish and some old books), onto my head. I had been watching Jilly Cooper on the Saturday Night Show with Brendan and thought, she seemed a bit of fun. And god knows, I am in need of a bit of fun. As usual, I am a good two decades behind everyone else. I remember two of the elders squealing about Riders/ Raiders/ Ropey Lovers or whatever it was called back then. I thought it looked all a bit grown up and stuffy, like reading Naomi Wolf’s ‘Vagina’: a hopeful, adult approach to my womanhood and spiritual view on my nether regions. In reality, it turns out to be a good head romp in the summer shade. I am ever hopeful.
It comes to light, I had something in common with those girls, I grew up, with after all and they never much appreciated my knits either. Sorry, excuse me, but its time for a glass of wine and some, erm, reading.