I’ve just had a birthday so I don’t need any more help towards wrinkles and grey hair. Higgins however is doing his best.

I’ve been a little lax on the blogging front lately, mainly due to a lack of photography rather than a lack of material so I decided to have a little photoshoot this afternoon.  I have to confess to a lack of originality for my latest project as I have been drawn back a number of times to Lucy’s technicolour blanket.  The colours are just SO scrummy!  I copied the list and left it at my favourite wool shop, and when a week later I had a call to say all the shades were in I dropped everything to go into Norwich to pick up my rainbow in a bag and came home to drool over the bright sugariness of the colours.

I toyed with another zigzag stripe but I’ve just made two in quick succession  and I know my boredom levels are low.  I decided on squares, not granny squares, too much stopping and starting and ends.  Big squares, using all seventeen colours, but in a different order ever time. 

 This way, hopefully, all the colours will run down at about the same rate and I can experiment with different combinations and be inspired for future projects.  I used my lovely blue studio sofa bed as a back drop, but despite being higher than our main sofa, Higgins’  ‘Zebedee’ springs meant that he went ‘boing’, and joined in.

It was afterwards, when I was downloading the pictures on to the computer that I heard suspicious noises from under the sofa bed. (If Higgins is behind or under something, there is always something illegal going on) There he was right at the back and out of reach, with a 2” long needle hanging out of one side of his mouth like a cigarette which meant he’d probably already swallowed the yarn threaded through it. Panic stations…my only hope was to lure him out with a bribe, but by the time I got back with the doggie treats, the needle had gone.

PANIC STATIONS! Ring the vet.  It’s Sunday. Listen to the recorded message telling me the opening hours.  That there is an emergency service.  Where the emergency is situated.  And then at last, the emergency service number.  Ring the number.  Recorded message explaining the function of the emergency service.  That it costs £80.  Eighty Pounds! That it’s for emergencies only.  At last, Gemma, the vet.  I’ve usefully spent the time on the phone so far hyperventilating and crying and trying to control same.  Managed to explain what happened coherently. Gemma says get here as soon as possible. Right. Fine. Oh God!  Can’t find the map.  Can’t SEE Google maps.
I sort of know where to go, but it’s about 15 miles away, the other side of Norwich, I’m a wet mess and Tim is in the middle of the North Sea.  Oblivious. 

Deep breaths.  I can do this.  Higgins strapped into the car next to me looking bemused.  Set off. I CAN do this. A hundred yards down the road, look at Higgins.  Higgins looks at me.  Spits out the needle…

It’s bent, the thread has gone and the eye has broken.  I turn round, go home and call the vet again.  She’s very pleased, we have gone from ‘Dire Emergency’ to ‘Keeping An Eye on Him’ and ‘Checking Out His Poos’.

And so here we are.  On the sofa.  Higgins, exhausted by my histrionics, snoring…

…and me, trying to regain my composure with a glass of wine…and another crochet square…

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