We are settling in to our new house, getting things upacked and figuring out where they belong, getting used to the new routines that go along with living out of town: for example, the boys have recently discovered that if you dawdle in the mornings, the bus won’t wait for you and then your mother yells at you for the whole 20-minute drive to school. I stilll don’t have a working oven, although we are one step closer: we’ve sourced a used one, we just have to get it installed. I will be very glad when I can bake again. Meanwhile, the boys are very happy – they think that bread from the supermarket is just the greatest thing since… well, since sliced bread, I suppose.
After all the packing and cleaning out of the old house, my hands were in terrible shape (imagine trying to knit while wearing gloves made out of velcro!), but a few days worth of industrial-strength hand cream has worked wonders, and I’m not only back on the knitting horse, but yesterday I got my spinning wheel out for the first time in a couple of months, and the fibre didn’t snag at all. Yay!
While sorting out and packing up, I made a startling discovery – I am down to 3 pairs of handknit socks! I know how to darn, and am not afraid to do it, but there comes a time for every sock when they just can’t be repaired any more, and must be retired. So new socks are the order of the day:
One casualty of the move is my annual trip to Bendigo. I had been hoping against hope that I could still make it this year, but I have finally pulled up my big-girl pants and accepted the fact that the money is just not there, and wishing won’t make it fall out of the sky. So the Hustler Street girls will just have to make up my share of wool and wine and chocolate and fun. I’m sure they’re up to the task.