Lifting the house

Sometimes I imagine being the headstrong yet adorable companion to Dr Who. I would get in the time machine and go back to when Ollie Twist was owner-building this farmhouse in the 1930's. He would be sitting out the back of his shed down the back playing his clarinet, an enviably SMALL instrument.

Apparently he was a congenial and open minded man so he would greet me happily enough once over the initial surprise at the appearance of a police box in his paddock.

Then after being introduced I'd have a stern word with Ollie.

"Ollie", I'd say, "There are a few things you need to change when you set about building this house of yours as it will one day be mine. I would appreciate you making the hallway twice as wide so I can have a couple of dressers with storage and lovely vinaigrettes on them."

After explaining the vinaigrette principle, I would go on to politely request that he also make the sun room twice as wide so we could fit more people out there and a table and chairs. We used to have them out there till the chillun  got too long to get in and out of the chairs and the Big Fella moved it around without permission while I was at the footy one day. Yes, we embrace role reversal here.

"Also Ollie, I would also like the subdivision of the farm to be just a little wider on the eastern side so we can keep the pair of ancient poinciana trees together and while you're on that concreting craze out the side could you lay a slab in the big empty room that could be a  great studio if it had a floor?"

"And one more thing, Ollie," I'd ask, as I followed the Doctor back into the Tardis. "Could you please make the house just a metre higher so I can build in underneath with plenty of light and no expensive house lifting which is very much the thing in this part of Australia in about eighty years time. Think what a visionary you would be!"

The door stays!

In the meantime I have taken out my house lifting frustrations on the doll house with castors I bought about eight years ago. All things come to those who wait. At least the Noahs won't get wet feet in the next big flood.

A little bird told me....

It's been quiet here with the holidays so we have been nesting. For me that means crocheting. It's easy, I don't have to clean up after a session and I can just do a little or a lot as I feel like it.

So I thought I'd flick you the bird's eye view on how to feather your nest....

 with a bird in the tree being worth one in the crochet.

 The early bird...

 catches the nest.

Empty nesters....

should always count their Noahs before they hatch! I always knew those Noahs were cuckoos!

(* this nest is made from a cheep ball of sale wool from Spotlight called Jazzy and a pattern that was loosely based on the bowls from the last post. )

Return of the Op Shop Karma

Lady Di wannabe (aka the Bosnian Orphan, aka Shorty),  and I hit the oppy again last week after a long hiatus. Frankly I haven't been up for it and I felt my opping mojo was perhaps compromised.

Imagine my barely contained excitement when after a brief round of the premises, I spied a WASHING MACHINE box full of vintage fabulousness. In fact it seemed to be from the one nanna source.

 Some had already been sewn into pillowcases with ric rac borders. Another woman was already sorting with trembling fingers. I hoped her two energetic toddlers might melt  down so I could take my turn like a lesser hyena at a kill on the Serengeti.
Op shop etiquette held me back till she looked up with the dilated pupils of a fellow fabric addict and asked me to please take some as she was already out of control and had to put some back. She added, as if to excuse her excitement, "I make bags for the markets."
"At least you don't hoard it in old suitcases like moi-self", I thought silently.

There would be more but for the inexplicable fact that one of Ron and Brian's lovely assistants tottered over and bemoaned the fact that she had to put it all on the shelf and price mark it. So she dragged the huge box of booty away from us with remarkable strength for a seventy + woman. My colleague and I took it as a sign to stop and draw a breath. Besides the toddlers were tired of the cutlery shelf by then. One of hers seemed to be trying to balance a rusty steak knife on his dummy. Another sign.

I have not made a quilt or a patchwork teepee yet as it is still lying in the back of the car under the trombone and euphonium.

Lucky I left the oppy when I did as I found this little group by the cash register. The one on the left is either a dog or a weasel. He is ours and we shall call him Dweazil. The mare-mie and foal are cute but.... 

 ...Bambi trumps horse/ dweazil every time.

There has been more crochet in the endless effort to make a beanie that fits my pin head. Fishy boy got the one on the left and Shorty's got non-bell baubles. She does look a bit like a little teapot with it on but that is, appropriately, one of her favourite songs.

 This small token got painted up in a lairy nail varnish to fulfil a Bitossi yearning. It is the only Bitossi I'll be getting for a while as I am supporting certain doctors' yearnings at the moments rather than my own.

Here it is in situ. The Noahs have left the building.

Going Out (like a light bulb)

The following dialogue occurred at approximately 9.45 a.m. this morning. Names of persons involved have been changed to protect their reputations and because I don't remember who said what. It's all moot!

Mother: If you behave that way you won't be coming with me today.

Child 1: Where are you going?

Mother: I don't know but if I do go, you are not coming.

Child 2: Where are you going?

Mother: Nowhere! But if I do go out only well behaved kids are coming.

Child 3: Are you going somewhere?

Mother: Is there a string in my back? I'm not going out but if I did he couldn't come.

Child 1: How can you have a string in your back?

Child 2: She means she's saying the same thing over and over.

Child 1: But you can't have a string in your back like Woody. That's impossible.

Child 2: You're being stupid. She just meant she had to keep saying he couldn't go out if he was bad.

Child 4: Who's going out? Is Mum going out? Where are you going?

Mother:(muttering under breath) Quietly mad and to a restful asylum very soon.

Child 2: What's an asylum? Can I come?

I got out just in time. It's the bloody Noah's again!