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2020 vision | the twisted yarn Knitting

Well, The was a very 2020-like week.

Oh, for those heady days of innocence long ago when no one understood what the above sentence meant. Right now, you probably wouldn’t even be surprised if I told you that hordes of purple mega ants with opera singing have invaded the neighborhood or that a sinkhole hole has opened under Twisted Towers and swallowed all my yarn. Fortunately, none of these things happened … although given 2020 I should probably say that none of these things happened YET.

What Has happened the climax of a couple of nasty ones who have been brewing for a while. One is that this week is ripe old I was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 47. Have any idea how hard it is to crochet a breast tumor to illustrate this post ?! I mean, viruses and bacteria look cute and quirky under a microscope, but breast cancer looks just like BLOBS. This is the best I can do. It is not very good:-

If the universe had bothered to give me a questionnaire asking if there was actually a bunch of mutant cells supposed to have a party in my right breast, I would of course have ticked the “NO” box very carefully. But I haven’t been consulted so I just have to make the best of things. At the very least, it’ll be a plausible excuse for lounging on the sofa, sighing melodramatically, and knitting in the coming months. (WHADDYA MEANS, “This is all I ever seem to be doing” ?!) No matter what, I’ll still be here, knitting and blogging and talking to you. I have more tests next week and the results will determine if the treatment is going to be very uncomfortable or very, very uncomfortable. Fingers crossed…

The images in this post are of below average quality. I’m so sorry. It’s been a rocky week. Normal operation will resume the next time.

And if the situation shows any weird potential then rest assured that I will find it and drag it outside and whip it mercilessly until I extract the last drop of humor for the purposes of this blog. I can’t help it: that’s how I am wired. When things get tough I tend to crack a joke. I should probably see a psychologist about it. Oh wait a minute …

This sock in progress is made in yarn by the honestly wonderful Burrow and Soar. More on that, with a treat for your blog readers, in an upcoming post.

There will always be new knitting to show you. Knitting a lot. However, I am very concerned about how the treatment will affect my running. Running has been the savior of my physical and mental health in recent years during perimenopause and I really would love to keep sucking on the Oxfordshire countryside. I would even like to run another marathon.

Running has been… warm for the past week. Very, very warm.

But I’m fine right now, the stoic spouse is fine, and most importantly, the twins know an age-appropriate amount about what’s going on and they seem fine so far. Hopefully the cancer turns out to be not too aggressive … although I think I should have just heard it growl. I worry about my patients at work, but I will use my last few weeks before surgery to try to organize things for their benefit as best as possible.

Trips to the Oxford hospital offer at least a chance to walk past the Headington Shark and smile. So life could be worse. Life could definitely be worse.

And I just have to hope that there aren’t any purple mega-ants with opera singing, because I really DON’T HAVE THE ENERGY to deal with these at the moment.

Meanwhile, the next generation of dinner starts its life in our tiny greenhouse.

As for the other difficult thing, I’m not sure how much more I can say publicly. But I risk saying this: The publisher that commissioned the book on stranded knitting that I’m writing has … um … a little bankruptcy problem right now – or at least the company that owns the publisher. So it is likely that I will have to find a new home for my half-finished book. I hate to think how many hardworking people get laid off because of this. And I hate to think about what garbage time this is for them when they’re out of work.

2020 what? What a year!

But let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like a three inch bossy boot knocking on the window to keep things in view. Sinkholes, cancer, bankruptcy, ants singing operas, none of these matters as long as Robyn-the-Robin gets her breakfast on time. She’s got a grip on life, that bird, I tell you.

See you next time, my fine fibrous friends.

Phil x

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