Becoming the Champion of Knitting

I have a tendency to get notions. Most of these notions come out of nowhere, just an idea, and then suddenly I throw myself at that idea. Without warning anyone. I simply decide that I think something is possible, therefore it will be so. In other words, I'm a bit stupid. When I was about nine years old I decided I was going to become the knitting champion of the world.

It didn't matter that I had never knitted before. I was sure that I would be the best.

I mostly decided on knitting, because everyone was always going on about how good the other girl in my class was at it. She was forever clicking her needles and casting off beautiful scarves. I decided to scope out the competition.

After listening to her speech about how much she loved to knit things for others, I decided she was a fake. I also decided that my knitting success would cause her to be forgotten forever more.

I knitted for all I was worth. I did not even know what it was I was knitting.

It soon became clear that I needed a goal. Knitting to take over the world was not enough. I needed a smaller temporary thing to focus on.

That didn't work either.

I had to tell someone my plans, that way it would be easier to keep going. So I told me father of my plans to knit him a hat.

I was incensed.

We had to bring our knitting to school. I was too embarrassed to take mine out as it was not quite at extravagant as I had wanted it to be. So I spent the class glaring at our prized knitter and contemplating ways to steal her work.

But the teacher insisted that I join the class activity. So I knitted along with the best of them.

This obviously didn't last long. There is nothing more soul destroying than knitting.

Knitting soon took over my life. I spent my evenings trying to make my dad's hat, knowing that queen knitter was visiting her granny, bestowing countless scarves upon her.

It became clear that this was one battle I would never win.

But then I had a notion.

I would knit more than anyone else, I'd just knit super tiny things so it wouldn't take ages.



My Brief and Terrifying Encounter With Yoga

On Wednesday, I left a poetry reading high on words. I was determined to become inspired by every small thing in my path.

That attitude died a dramatic and sudden death when I got to my bicycle. It was locked beneath two bikes I had never seen before and it was impossible to extract from the situation. My naturally sullen disposition was restored and I fought the desire to strangle the nearest lamp-post.

It was clear to me that this was some drinker's revenge for all the poetry we'd subjected them to. I returned to the pub and started to make my inquiries.

The barman was not impressed by my assumption that any of his customers would have anything to do with cycling.

 Which led me to believe he was losing the plot.

 He led me to the pub door and pointed across the road as he explained about the "Yoga Fuckers".

I stood staring at the glowing green door of the Yoga Studio. I'd like to say I took a moment to consider a plan of action, but alas such things are not in my nature. I plodded across the road with all the grace of a pitt-bull and trooped up the stairs in search of the culprits.

It was pitch-black upstairs, so I assumed the place was empty and turned to leave. Nothing is creepier than being somewhere you've never been before when it's dark and empty. You don't even know any good hiding places.

I heard a sneeze coming from the dark room behind me. I should have probably hightailed it. Instead, I peered back into the dark and as my eyes adjusted I noticed the small curled up mounds of people all over the floor. 

 I did what any other person of questionable sanity would do and walked into the dark yoga class.

Nobody answered my initial self-introduction. I was impeccably polite and treated their silence as some sort of state of shock. I knew I would eventually charm them out of silence with my awkward interrogation skills.  I stood in the doorway and just kept talking....

and talking.... 

 Until their leader unfurled and addressed the room in a whispery voice.

Being referred to in this manner was a little off-putting, I felt like my integrity was being compromised, so I lunged across the rolled up people to validate my claims that my bicycle was imprisoned.

 I gestured widely out the window as the room of yoga blobs remained disconcertingly silent.

I heard a woman's voice behind me. I spun around and in the entrance to the room stood the most horrifying woman brandishing a yoga mat. She slowly approached me.

 As she approached the leader continued to whisper to the room about my presence.

 I was trying to figure out how to get past the yoga lady without falling victim to her yoga mat, when two of the people curled up on the floor sprung to life and sprinted from the room.

At this point I was certain this was all an elaborate dream. The woman was still approaching and nobody seemed to want to explain the disappearance of the two men.

 I asked the room where they were going.

Faced with hostile silence, that I now consider to be synonymous with yoga, I decide to leave.

Outside, the two men were standing over my bike debating in Spanish. I stood beside them wondering when the entire nightmare would end. We stood that way for the longest minute of my life, they argued, I simply stood there. I had given up on ever releasing my bike.

 At one point I asked why they were still standing there and was not surprised to find they didn't answer.

Eventually, having decided that I was either a) to poor to pay ransom for my bike or b) more trouble than keeping it hostage was worth, they took out the key and released my bike.

I thanked them despite my innate desire to lock their bikes up and throw away the key. They, again, said nothing.

I cycled home, sure of one thing. That barman was right about the "Yoga Fuckers".

The Trials and Tribulations of Being a Hobbit Magnet

The kind of men who usually line up to date me,

look like something that crawled out of the shire,

as far as Middle Earth goes, there's actually plenty,

of men in the Fellowship I'd happily admire.

I'd give up on poetry and follow them to Mordor,

but those aren't the sort that come knocking on my door.

No those aren't the sort that climb down my chimney,

I get ginger-beards with pot-bellies that remind me of Gimli.

It gets awkward when they ask for a date,

because they remind me of this hobbit I hate...

Who took 'Hell No' to mean 'Hell Yes', because his hearing was damaged,

and he thought it was fate, because we're both vertically challenged.

See short men think my height is an open-invitation,

I'll map the hairs on their feet and end their frustration.

They sometimes salivate in the front row,

because perhaps they're sleeping or hoping to grow...

or they just don't have girls on their side of the Shire,

so now I'm on stage they think I'm for hire.

And hobbits are resilient, they don't understand never,

they think it's my way of being witty and clever.

So there's no point in telling a hobbit no,

they've a tendency to never let these things go...

But they're not as bad as the guy that looks like Gollum,

who looked in my eyes all regal and solemn,

and told me not to worry because he's broken too,

and I walked away because that's nothing new.

Then there's the men that try to act mysterious,

going hot and cold to get me delirious...

I guess in their heads they are channelling Aragorn,

but that ship has sailed and those shoes are worn.

The worst is a guy that reminds me of Gandalf,

one of those drama-kings that don't do anything by half.

He read me his poems by the light of the moon,

with what I assume was dementia, thinking I'd swoon.

I wanted to tell him he was as old as my granddad,

but I'm not the kind of girl that makes geriatrics feel bad.

My problem isn't that they're short, bald, dying or fat,

it's that I'm on stage to be listened to, not looked at.