Okay, so there’s clearly a problem when the damp in your bathroom wall starts blistering and crumbling the plaster and paint right off. You call in people to find the source of the trouble, and then pay them to fix it.
Our old standbys, Andre and Coralee-Ann, came to the rescue. The shower floor had a crack in it plus the sealer round the edges had worn off – basically, every time I showered, I was causing more water to be sucked up into the wall. The solution was to rebuild the shower floor, and scrape down, replaster, re-tile and repaint the walls.
The work was finished yesterday, but not before I had woken up the night before to use the bathroom, didn’t bother to switch the light on, staggered around in the dark on my way back to bed trying to avoid the linen basket and the towel box and other things that had been temporarily moved, misjudged where the bed ended and so threw myself like a sack of butternuts into the narrow space between the bed and the displaced bathroom stuff. I cracked both knees, one arm and my head in the fall. It was a very rude shock to my system, especially at 2.30am. When I realised I hadn’t actually broken anything, I heaved myself up and into the bed proper. I lay there cosily thinking how lucky I was to have gotten away with just some bruises and that now would be a good time to embrace sleep again, when one of the cats lurched in and proceeded to vomit copiously all over the carpet. A metre away from me. Twice.
I guess not every night is bound to be peaceful and restorative…
Okay, I’ll admit it, I have definitely overbooked myself: I have eight markets between now and Christmas, one of which extends over three weeks, and that isn’t including the one-month stint at the Waterfront (I have been given November, no swapping allowed). While I’m thinking there won’t be much room for blogging, at the same time blogging helps me to focus on one thing at a time. Also, very luckily, I have a wonderful support network – Alex, Rob, Anne, Doreen, Karen…
For the Cape Gift Market in Sea Point, I have undertaken to make 30 owl cushions and 30 cat cushions. The owl design is sorted but I’m still working on the cat. This is what I’ve come up with so far:
I want it to be similar in style to the owl, but couldn’t figure out how to work any shweshwe fabric in. I tried it on the ears but it didn’t look right. Paws, maybe? I tried a nose as well, also didn’t work. I like a streamlined look, not fussy, and not cute. Comments are welcome, especially constructive ones :-)
And just to illustrate my natural ability to prioritise things, I have just agreed to make 6 pairs of mitts for the UK family of a friend who is going over for Christmas.
Beautiful spring day in Cape Town today, I’m off to run some errands – maybe I can get in a bit of crocheting when the traffic lights are red hahahahaha
Seems like there’s a bit of a “work in progress-Wednesday” thing going on with the crafty blogs, so here’s what I’ve been fitting in every now and then.
You knew I was gonna come up with something like this one of these days, right!? It’s almost finished, and Alex made me drag it outside into the sunshine for a proper pic. Jessie (aka Flotsam) refused to sit on it but that’s because I used the sheep to model the blue hat yesterday, and not her, so she’s sulking.
I picked the stool up at some junk shop or other, with the idea of painting the legs and mosaicing the top. As far as I can remember, anyway. But I’m very pleased with my first yarnbomb effort and I’m starting to look at other things around here that might benefit from similar treatment. The couch? Bedside table? Jessie?
And I haven’t forgotten that midnight tonight is the cut-off time for picking someone’s name for the owl cushion give-away. It’s been such a fun and gratifying thing to do, I wish I could give everyone an owl!
When you are woken up at 4h35 by the sound of things breaking in the vicinity of your dressing table, and when you realise you left your bedroom window open, and when you live in Cape Town, you get the fright of your life. Adrenalin catapults you out of bed, wielding the first thing that comes to hand (in my case, a half-empty box of Salticrax), sweeping back the curtains and roaring with rage at the villain outside with a hooked stick trying to fish out your meagre collection of valuable jewellery (in my case, there isn’t one because, after a burglary some years ago, I decided not to replace anything of value because it was likely to happen again).
When there is no-one outside, no clumping footfall speeding off through the damp garden, no abandoned hooked stick, you think “@#&% cat!”, but when there is no cat in sight, what do you make of the ceramic vase in shards on the floor, make-up brushes scattered around, bangles strewn about…?
You do not know. You go back to bed and lie quietly, trying to calm down, eating the last of the Salticrax, glaring at the cat who innocently strolls in to see what all the fuss is about.