The Last DJ

The Hoarder's Patchwork is finished.

Well, not completely finished: I still have to work out how I'm going to line it. But I just sewed the 1600th square into place, and my hands were shaking as I tied the thread off.

It feels as if I've broken a link with the me who cut up a leather skirt to make restraints, looked down at the polyester lining and said, "I wonder if I could turn these into patchwork." The me who finished rewriting Dice and celebrated by drinking Sekt on the river bank. The me who used to go to the market on the Domplatz and tentatively discuss the keeping qualities of beetroot in German.

I hate looking back on those days, because although I was very happy, the happiness was built on a false premise. Ninety percent of the things I planned in those days have had to be scrapped, utterly unworkable.

The Hoarder's Patchwork was in the remaining ten percent. It began in those glorious days when everything seemed to be within my reach, and somehow I've seen it through to the end. And as with many of my novels, the end comes as a wrenching goodbye.

Our Tesco order and our vegetable box arrived, and I managed to buy milk. I started to wear my old Docs instead of my hiking boots and suddenly I have more grip (and noticed my hiking boots are already starting to wear through at the heels. How long have I had those? Brasher boots for the lose.

I also found my gel hand warmer, with the metal thing that you click. I simmered it for half an hour; it nearly went completely clear, and immediately started to recrystallise from the tiny wee crystals. Anybody know if this stuff gets old and wears out? I can imagine that if it has a lot of little particles of something in, this should happen.

Last year I met up with Miss Cobweb for a shoot in Church Fenton Manor. The day up in Yorkshire was really good. It was really enjoyable, as well as being productive and I'm hoping that I will be working with Miss Cobweb again in 2010.



( As usual there are a few more under the cut. )

Hmm, I've been bodding around and found a couple of sets of images from FHM China. Surprisingly creative given they are from the FHM fold. The pictures are quite cool, and somewhat post-Apocalyptic.

http://nbnl.globalwhelming.com/2008/11/17/pictures-fhm-china-girls-in-war/
http://drtenge.livejournal.com/430336.html

On a slightly similar note, this set is from Vogue Italy:
http://community.livejournal.com/foto_decadent/1959250.html

I'm getting the urge to do a bit of a story-themed photoshoot? If anyone is interested that would be super.

...does not include cycling home in moderately-heavy snow-fall. It stings my eyes, makes visibility difficult, and the road surfaces hazardous (even the semi-main roads on my commute had snow on them, despite the gritting). Still, I made it in one piece!

I made some snow cleats, from some of the random stuff I have in case it will be useful one day. Up yours, council, I don't need your nonexistent pavement gritting. Woo. Testing is scheduled for later today when I will go and walk up and down a bit.

EDIT: they didn't work, the snow went inside and made them stop attaching to my boots. I have found some spiky heel things sold by an actual shop actually present in Sheffield*, for mountaineers to walk across little bits of ice on the way to the mountain before they attach crampons to their boots. I will buy them tomorrow.

EDIT EDIT: they do not sell them at that branch, only in ones further south. What good is that to anybody? I give up.

I am taking a day off because the cold has gone back to my sinuses again and I feel like crap.

*Tesco have failed to deliver our food today because of the snow and ice; I assume other people who deliver things in vans will have the same problem

Poll #1507466 Undecorating
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 98

When should Christmas decorations be taken down?

When are you taking your Christmas decorations down this year?

Somebody suggest a bank that do current accounts and don't suck. Abbey have once again changed my customer record address and not the addresses on any of my accounts and therefore have sent my new debit card to Deborah's house, which means I cannot buy anything until it arrives here. I am very glad I have such an honest former housemate.

This is especially irritating because it means I cannot buy these and walk to work without complete terror every time I encounter a corner, slope or moron. (Top moron award goes to the "Royal Apartments" on London Road whose leaking gutters provide their illustrious residents with a complimentary bobsleigh run every time it freezes; honourable mention also to the grocer who parked his van on the pavement outside his shop, poured water on the back doors to wash the ice out of the lock which promptly froze in a deadly river of black ice across the pavement, resulting in a procession of Bangladeshi grannies stepping out onto the road for the rest of the morning so as not to end up in A&E.)

I have noticed every time it freezes that groups of men walking around in twos and threes come up to me whenever I'm negotiating a difficult icy corner and shout "BE CAREFUL" in my face. Why is this? Are they sexually aroused by broken bones? Is it some kind of freakish chimpanzee power demonstration? Also, I can only conclude that I am the only woman in Sheffield under the age of fifty who goes outside for more than ten minutes at once. I have seriously not seen another female person outside unless they are squealing along the road between houses wearing foolish shoes and incredibly fashionable useless clothes, or defrosting a car. What is wrong with people? Bring on the oil crash.

EDIT: it didn't arrive at old house...I have asked for the old one to be cancelled and a new one sent to this address. I think. The system seems to be different in the Indian call centre to the Northern Ireland call centre. If nothing has happened by Monday I will go and harangue somebody in the bank.

Aha! I am finally having one of those productive days like I had before I started my job. So far I have:
( list )
Huzzah. My useful, I found it.

The lure of the FA Cup was enough for me to drain every possible source of credit and slog through a thin but treacherous layer of the fluffy white stuff, in the interests of a game I wasn't even sure was going ahead. When we arrived at Glanford Park just after one, the ticket office would only venture to say it was 99% certain, but they were happy to take payment by cheque for one adult terrace ticket.

Andrea, after getting under everyone's feet on Monday, was spending the match in the stand with Karen, so we repaired to the Iron Bar to meet her. This was the first opportunity for team news, which didn't inspire confidence. A virus was laying waste to the squad - Hooper and O'Connor were out, as well as the suspended McCann and Wright - and although the starting line-up looked reasonable, the bench featured the very senior Andy Crosby, the very junior Rory Coleman, and Kenny Milne, out of action for a season and a half.

I gave Karen some last instructions and the price of a hot dog and Fanta, and headed for the terrace on my own. Since I didn't have to worry about Andrea's comfort, I took up my old spot right in the middle of the goal, hoping there would be plenty of action for me to have a good view of. To our disgust, the teams changed ends just before kick-off, so that Scunthorpe were attacking that goal in the first half.

The biggest cheer of the opening stages went to Milne's first warm-up jogs along the touchline. This was no empty morale-booster - he was a genuine substitute with every prospect of coming on. Meanwhile, the game developed with no shortage of shots off-target but little that promised a goal. Jonathan Forte, whose biggest problem seems to be confidence, ran onto a through ball as the Barnsley keeper went to claim it. If he'd stayed on his feet, he might have fallen over the keeper's outstretched hand and conceivable won a penalty; instead, he opted to fling himself feet-first at the ball, prompting the referee to give a free kick the other way.

A few minutes later, the keeper came charging out of his area to claim a ball, only for it to fall instead to Garry Thompson. Thompson got it under control, dribbled into the penalty area, and appeared to have the goal at his mercy when the keeper, recovering, got some sort of touch and the ball went out of play. To our intense disgust, the referee signalled a goal kick.

We went in for half time 0-0, and it was off to the Grove Wharf corner as usual, the only difference being that Andrea was the other side of the gate. Karen reported that she'd been as good as gold, and let us catch up on the cuddles while she relayed scores from elsewhere. The news that non-league York were a goal to the good against Premier League Stoke roused my interest, but that was swiftly followed by the news that Stoke had equalised, then taken the lead.

As the players returned to the pitch, the announcement of a substitution drew cheers from us all. Kenny Milne was returning to the side for the first time since August 2008. We cheered his every successful clearance for the first few minutes, and although I watched him with the anxious interest you give a machine you're not completely sure you've fixed, he remained solid.

He had plenty to do in the early stages of the second half, as Barnsley had their period of pressure. I wondered whether we would regret the chances we hadn't taken, as our old friend "always works and never fails" got a serious run-out. The Barnsley strikers needed one touch more than we allowed them, and there was always a defender in the way; what shots came in were easy work for Josh Lillis.

When we had the ball, we raced forwards with all hands - and as often as not, ran straight into trouble. Forte set off on one such run, ran into a defender and looked to have lost the ball, but somehow we kept possession and a cross went in. It flew across the penalty area untouched, and found Paul Hayes on the far side: ready, willing and able to obey the Immutable Law of the Ex once again.

A couple of minutes later, we had another flying attack. "Go on," I said. "2-0 isn't wasting goal difference." But it came to nothing.

Time ticked by, and Barnsley threw everything forward. I'd already missed the moment where the time remaining is the 24-hour equivalent of the time - the clock disappeared as the scoreboard brought us the most unwelcome news that our fishy friends had taken the lead - and now I missed the 12-hour equivalent when a bout of bad temper distracted me. Jon Macken tangled with Milne and, failing to pull him down, came over all petulant. Milne was having none of that, Cliff Byrne leapt in to restrain him, and half the players of both sides decided they had to put their two penn'orth in. Finally, the referee forced Milne and Macken to shake hands, and we could move on with the final couple of minutes.

Stoppage time was hell on the nerves, the whistles from the crowd reminding me forcefully of what we did to Leicester. With, by my estimation, less than a minute left, Barnsley won a free kick in a dangerous area. "This is it, then," I said. "We're going back to Oakwell." But we dealt with it, as we'd dealt with everything else, and the referee blew to send us through to the fourth round.

In the Iron Bar, Sky Sports applied a little icing to the cake. There had indeed been a late equaliser in a Humberside game: the cods still can't get a win. We sat and watched the rest of the scores go through, speculating very pleasantly on who our next cup opponents might be.

We have left Cambridge and come back to Sheffield (booo) but the house is not knee deep in water, the ice has gone and I have a list of fresh-start-like things to do, such as buy a new accounts folder because the old one is full and do some saving, and finish my thesis. Yay.

No debit card yet...

I read a couple of things yesterday that have been crashing around in my head; they seem to be connected in some way, but I can't quite put the link into words.

The first was from a round-up of bad messages in otherwise good films. It claimed the Harry Potter films (and books) send the message that if you're not born with the ability to do something, you will never be able to do it. That's definitely a message you can pick up from Harry Potter, but a bad one?

Muggles can't do magic, but people from a magical background are freqently unable to come to grips with non-magical technology (like Ron trying to use the telephone, or Hagrid travelling by Tube). And although not being able to do magic makes a person vulnerable, it's clear that taking advantage of that vulnerability is not an admirable act.

So really, the message is "people have limitations, but they still deserve respect". Not what I'd call a bad message; it's arguably better than "you can do anything you put your mind to" with the implication that if you can't do it, you're not trying properly.

The second thing was from a discussion of a particularly outrageous example of woo-woo self-help, which branched out into the problem with self-help generally. Someone made the valid point that people often pay for self-help books and courses as a short cut that will get them where they want to be without any real effort, and added that if you really know what your heart's desire is, you also know how to get it.

Unless there's a circular logic in force, whereby not knowing how to get it proves that you don't really really know what it is, I'm pretty sure it isn't true. I know what my heart's desire is, and I also know it's unattainable. Drop down a rung to the things I would really really like, and I still don't have much idea how to get there from here.

You might say that I just have unnecessarily complicated desires, but I'm struggling to think of a desire that doesn't require some form of extra knowledge. Supposing you want to develop a certain skill. You need to practise, but practice alone won't do it. You also need technique, and that means some kind of outside assistance. The knowledge doesn't come pre-installed just because you want it.

No-one took exception to the statement - and this in a long and vigorous comment thread - so I can only assume I'm missing something.

So I thought I'd recap the year, because this was a good use of the first few hours I was awake in 2010 :) Clearly, my first conclusion is that I need to update LJ more, because it's no use to me when doing these things! I should add that this recap is comic- and art-based, and leaving out things related to work etc are not because they're not important ^^;;

( Long comic-related ramble about 2009 under this cut, with pictures and links. )

On a slightly different and less pictorial note, I wondered about the last decade (which at least one person on my f'list has done). I'm a little worried about even remembering what I was doing, and I know I've missed out a lot of stuff and people, but here goes...

( Shorter ramble about 2000-2009 under this cut, no pictures but some links. )

So - well done for reading this far, if you have, and thank you to everyone who's made 2009 and the last ten years so memorable - I've met so many lovely people, I'm sorry I can't name everyone! Here's to a happy and prosperous New Year and new decade, and may this year bring you all that you need and more than you had ever dreamed ^^

( Further cut for more waffling, relating to God. )

My the works of my hands, the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, oh Lord, my rock and my redeemer.
- based on Psalm 19:14

I didn't make any resolutions in the end. There's a thread at Making Light about "butterfly moments", those little things that end up making a big difference to the direction your life takes. I spent much of last night wondering why it knocked me back so hard. The good thing about goal lists is that they get things done. The arithmetic was starkly simple. In the flat days after Luton, one of my friends on League Portal tried to console me, telling me we might still go back to Wembley and win, "and if you do that day against Luton will be a distant memory." It's the first week of the month, which means I get another dose of food pron. I'm trying to remember when I last started a new novel on a date that wasn't November 1st. Classic FM have a new advert for their dating service. I finally received my food hygiene certificate this week - apparently I didn't get the gender wrong after all. I was going to write something cheerful about NaNo (2.7k so far!). Andrea has been learning quite a bit of Christian stuff for the Nativity play.

( The long meme goes behind the cut )

( A couple more, from a different shoot, under here. )

According to a programme I watched over the festive period, the ancient tradition of a midwinter festival stems from the urgent need for something to look forward to during the miserable dark days. The only trouble is that when the festivities are over, the dark days look so much darker by comparison, and there's nothing holding the misery back.

This year is particularly bad because I can't see anything to look forward to even on the furthest horizon. In due course, David Cameron is going to get elected, and probably do his best to make me stop existing. In due course, Scunthorpe United are going to return to League One. It's going to be just like 2008, only without the dubious consolation of sucking fishy dick.

I have no-one to celebrate the new year with, and the only reason I'm on track with the "12 mince pies for health, happiness and the occasional three points" challenge is because I'm counting the Riverside Stadium and the waiting room at Doncaster as houses. I'm even contemplating being my own first footer - and hoping whatever beings arbitrate first footing don't consider me a woman (or, for that matter, a redhead).

Christmas with whitepaw's family was awesome. Nearly all my presents were chocolate. We are now in Cambridge until Saturday! Suggest meetings-up pls.

( And another under the cut )