Author Archives: alishairish

In Tune

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Growing up in Malaysia, wanting to learn an instrument is a bigger challenge than it ought to be. Firstly, you’re limited by the choice of instruments: you’ll be lucky if you’re actually allowed to choose anything outside of the piano or violin, and luckier still if you find anyone willing to teach you, say, trombone. And secondly, minor failure is permanent failure, especially if you have a less-than-encouraging teacher.

I started piano lessons at about the age of six. I struggled with sight-reading because I wasn’t quick enough, but I had nearly pitch-perfect hearing, so I could reproduce the pieces I needed to learn, as long as I heard them first. This, according to my teacher, was more than a little bit cheaty, so I never got very good because I couldn’t teach myself to sight-read without some – any – input from what I heard first. Reverse-engineering was apparently not how it should be done, and therefore wrong.

It got worse when to try and make things easier, my mum decided that I would no longer sit exams and learn to play for fun and improvement. My teacher really did not like me after that, because as far as she was concerned, what would be the point? By the age of ten I was canny enough to cancel my lessons myself, and then I stopped altogether.

It made me sad, because while I knew I was no great talent, I knew I could be taught. I never found the confidence to try again.

I still try to sing; I say ‘try’ because while I can sing, I largely imitate whoever it is I’m listening to at the time, so I don’t really have a voice that’s my own. It’s also why I’ve never been able to fit into a choir. I’m fun in the car, but useless in a collection of voices.

But I can recognize voices. I can remember licks and variations. I can tell when it’s one orchestra playing a piece or a different one. I can pull lyrics from recesses of my brain I don’t even remember building.

And I have wonderful, encouraging friends.

My lovely cannot-be-without-her best mate Chantelle is an incredibly talented musician. She played euphonium in orchestra, she plays the guitar, she has a wonderful voice that is very clearly her own, and she now sings with a brilliant folk artist, Talis Kimberley, and has taken up the ukulele.

After many conversations and random sing-songs over the years, and based on how my taste in music has evolved, she’s inspired me to try again, and this is what I did, over twenty years after I kicked my piano teacher to the curb.

Meet Iona

This is an Ovation Celebrity, a gorgeous roundback guitar with a nice slim neck that allows even my tiny hands to play all the strings. The guitar was recommended to me by Talis, who has a similar build to me and has similarly small hands, and this guitar fits me perfectly. This was the one year where I looked forward to my tour-of-duty to Malaysia, because I knew I would receive enough birthday money to make this purchase. I really had to talk myself into it, and I’m so glad that I did.

I got her from Absolute Guitars in Bristol, who were incredibly helpful and informative, and most importantly did not once make me feel like a complete idiot. They were happy to answer even the most novice questions and took the time to show me how to do basic things, like use the on-board tuner and tune the guitar myself. They even said that once I get comfortable with my guitar and improve some, I could contact them again and get them to recommend a decent amp and they would sort me out.

I’ve spent a few days since learning a few chords, trying to find a way that makes playing her easy and comfortable. I love her to bits. When she’s tucked up against me and I’m picking and strumming, it’s like I’ve filled a gap I never knew I had.

I’m hoping that as I learn songs to play and sing to them, away from the original music track, I’ll be able to find a voice and a sound that is entirely my own, and I won’t be imitating anyone anymore. It would be pretty cool to find out what I really sound like.

A Long Time Coming (FOs)

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I’ve been slow to get back into things since coming back from Kuala Lumpur, but I think I’ve finally got there now. I’m back at the Horniman Gardens comfortably – that is, as long as Bank holidays and dental appointments don’t interrupt – and I’ve started a couple of other things, but for now I have finished objects to show.

Pattern: Fiori di Zucca, by Alice Yu (Socktopus Sock Club June 2008)
Yarn: Dream in Color Smooshy in Gelato al Pistacchio
Needles: 2.5mm

At long last, nearly four years later, I have finished these socks. If anything, these socks tell me how much I’ve grown since I first tried to knit them. When I first tried, I had to read the chart every single row, almost every single square, and I could find no rhythm or sense in the pattern. This time, I whipped through it because I found a pattern to the pattern, a rhythm to the lace, and all went very well indeed.

The only problem I had was that because of my chunky calves, the lace looks painfully stretched on the leg, and while it fits very well on the foot, the shift from the leg to the foot made the heel cup slightly baggy on me. I rarely choose to knit the large size of a sock pattern, but I needed to here to fit my leg, and I wish I had the foresight to decrease around the heel to make it fit better.

Oh well. If you’re not still learning, you’re already dead, I suppose.

I also finished something else last month, but I started it probably about two summers ago. I’m very glad I’ve finished it now, but I think I did bite off a little more than I could chew when I chose this project.

I finished a quilt. A pretty big quilt, that involved some small piecing, appliqué, and my first attempts at quilting and binding. The small piecing was fine, and actually quite fun to do, largely because it was done entirely on the machine – well, not my machine per se, but Mummy Irish’s machine, because that was where I did most of this quilt. In fact, let it be known that if I didn’t take this thing up to Wolverley it would never have got done.

Mummy Irish showed me how to sew together the pie pieces neatly. Then now to appliqué the pies onto the red squares. Then she helped me put the quilt top together. Then she helped me make the sandwich. And when I utterly failed to hand-quilt the thing in different coloured threads, she decided I should just machine-quilt waves across the quilt while hand-quilting the pies in the ditch.

Then she showed me how to bind. In fact, she did the machine work and then showed me how to hand-stitch the final stage. And then because she was quicker, she finished the hand-stitching for me.

This quilt is not even for me.

It’s for the son of a special young man, to whom I owe a lot. In fact, I owe him my entire career move and therefore my new life.

So I’m very glad that this quilt is done, and despite how daunting it was because of its size, I’m glad I made it this big, because his son will be two in November, and I want this quilt to last.

Next time I’m going to aim smaller. Like a cushion. Or a hot water bottle cover. Let’s start with that.

Oy.

Speechless

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I didn’t know, but this week is Knitting and Crochet Blog Week. If I’d known, I probably would have planned stuff and taken part, because it looks like a lot of fun.

I knew there were people I know that would be taking part, and there would be fun blog posts to read this week.

But I wasn’t expecting this.

Yesterday’s blog post theme was ‘Your Knitting and Crochet Hero’. Ruth, for all I honour, respect and love her, chose to write about me and my Montview.

I have no words. Just teary smiles that threaten to split my face wide open.

Go show her some love. She’s more amazing than the English vocabulary has words to describe.

Eleven Threes

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Two weeks ago this year, I turned thirty-three.

I don’t mind it. Largely because I don’t look it. But I also very much don’t feel it, nevermind act it. So much so that one of the apprentices at the Horniman Gardens demanded to see my driver’s license, after which he insisted I must be practising some form of voodoo.

I took it as a compliment.

I probably should have done more with my life by now. I should be well-anchored in some kind of career, rather than trying to start one. I try to not let that bother me too much, because in many ways I’m rather grateful for the journey I’ve had to make in order to get this far.

I am thirty-three. I wear jeans and funky t-shirts and plaid shirts and sweatshirts, my feet either in trainers, leather work boots or hiking boots. I have a very loyal Rab jacket. I have a mass of hair that I dye mahogany violet, that you can only see in the right light, so it feels like a secret surprise. I have worn the same watch since 1997.

But this year, I am thirty-three, and also a fledgling horticulturist. I am thirty-three, and I am very happy to declare that I am a gardener, a junior plantswoman on the road to being a hopefully very good one.

This year, I am thirty-three. And I know what I want to be when I grow up, because I’m already here.

Back and in the Saddle

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We’ve been home since the weekend now, and we’re pretty much recovered from the long-haul flight, though Nick seems to have picked up some nasty bug. The laundry is all sorted, the suitcases are all put away, and life goes back on track.

I have socks to finish.

I have purchased new steel-toe-capped boots.

They are RedBacks, and they are awesome. 

I have acquired new colours to play with.

(The rest of the mess isn’t mine; that’s Nick’s miniature painting mess.) 

And in my absence, my chilli plants have begun to flower.

I still have a couple more exciting things coming up, all related to birthday acquisitions and new projects to do, but I think at the moment I’m just super-excited to be home.

Because there’s nothing like great friends, good food and knitting to make everything feel like home.

In Preparation

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Every other year now Nick and I go and do the tour of duty back to Malaysia. We’re off soon for two weeks, and I’ve had to get stuff ready.

Apart from making sure that the flat is in order and we have enough laundry and haven’t forgotten anything, there are a couple of things that are unique to the Irish household preparations.

Thanks to our Kindles, both Nick and I are properly armed with enough reading. Once upon a time we’d have a backpack stuffed with paperbacks. No more. I think for once Nick might actually not run out of things to read on this trip. I’m slower, so I’m in no real danger.

Also, I’ve had to prepare knitting.

I finished a baby blanket for a nephew that arrived nearly 6 months ago. It’s Rowan Fine Milk Cotton, which is not my ideal choice, but as this child lives in a tropical country, I had to do the right thing and get knitting with cotton. It’s a lovely fabric, though, and will wash well in the machine.

I’ve started a plain stocking stitch sock in a nice, 6-ply sportweight yarn. This is Regia World College Color in Campus; there was an offer on this yarn, and I now own a ball of each colour in the College series. That’s nine pairs of nice plain boot socks. Nine.

And I’ve prepared a nice picot cuff for another more brain-worthy sock pattern. This is the first package from this year’s Knit Love Club, and I fully intend to knit all six of the patterns this year. I may fail spectacularly.

There’s no round-up for March, as the reading and film-viewing has been a little thin this month, but with all the travelling, I’m sure I’ll have stuff to write about for next month’s round-up. That is, if I ever work out where to start.

I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, with hopefully plenty to show.

The NHS

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I am very lucky in that I rarely get very sick. And I mean crucially sick. I have long bad colds, and I get the flu, but nothing of any great concern. I have only been admitted into hospital once, back in Malaysia, for dengue fever, which is a very nasty thing. But I was in an efficient, clean, private hospital, and my parents footed the bill.

Yes. There was a bill. I thought that was how it always worked.

Until I went to university here, I didn’t realize that the University Health Service was free not because I’d paid my school fees, but because it was meant to work that way. I had chest x-rays when I developed adult onset asthma. I had physio when I sprained my ankle during kung-fu. I had ultrasound therapy when I compacted something in my shoulder in a defensive exercise gone wrong. I had my first smear test. I was carefully cared for when I got chicken pox at the age of 27, which meant it hit me like a ton of bricks.

All for only the price of whatever prescription medication I needed. I expected to pay for my medicine, but could never really wrap around my head around the idea that I didn’t owe the doctors, nurses and the service anything at all. Other than to get well.

Away from university, I now have a local surgery, with a wonderful GP. Yes, so I have to ring up at eight in the morning on the day if I wanted an appointment, but I am rarely – as I said – urgently ill. If I was, there was the walk-in centre, which means waiting a while, but I would get seen. If I was in terrible need, I have always been certain I would be cared for.

I broke my first ever bone at the age of 28. I got x-rayed, advised, wrapped up and given a pair of crutches with word to return for a check up in six weeks. For nothing.

I developed plantar fasciitis after attempting the Trailwalker challenge in 2009. I first spent weeks with a foot clinic, doing everything from exercises to laser therapy and getting insoles made. Eventually I was recommended acupuncture, which alongside my training at the gym, made a huge difference to how well and how much I could walk without pain.

All that, for nothing.

One of our dear friends had to be in the ICU for several weeks because of complications involving her heart and lungs. There was talk of surgery, of observation, of recovery. All those weeks she was cared for, she didn’t owe them anything.

I fell into depression, and on my GP’s advice I tried Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. They in turn felt I was better suited to something else. I waited, and did a different kind of therapy for a while. It suited me even less, in the end. So now I have anti-depressants.

The entire journey that ended with me needing to pay only £7.40 for enough medication to enable me to be me for two months at a time, cost me nothing.

I know that I am very lucky to be sufficiently healthy that I only rely on the NHS for my prescriptions. I am also lucky that Nick’s health insurance at work also covers me. But I am not everyone. There are people in greater need than me, and who are not so fortunate to have the option of health insurance.

Last week, when I had to go into hospital for a minor procedure, I marvelled again at how I’m being cared for at no cost. I marvelled at how if the results of the procedure bore bad news, I was certain that I would be told my next steps, and how I would achieve them, and who would be there to help me. Luckily for me, it didn’t.

But if that procedure were to take place next week, I would not be marvelling. I would be scared. Because that certainty is now gone.

I don’t fully understand the changes that the NHS Bill is proposing. All I understand is that as it passes, the NHS – declared “one of the most humanitarian acts that has ever been undertaken in peace time” – would never be the same again. Until Monday afternoon, I knew anyone and everyone would be cared for by this great institution. On Monday evening a friend of mine said something quite simple, and yet thinking about it now, it’s like a blow to the chest:

“I got well for free.”

Today, I no longer know for sure.

Back home in Malaysia, I know that there are people less well-off who have to travel into the capital city at great cost, to then pay for their medication that may only last them a month, because that is all they can afford at the time. I know that a cousin of mine would be deeply out of pocket if not for the generosity of our families who were willing to help him when his only daughter had to be hospitalized. I know my parents opened their wallets when I needed treatment for dengue fever.

I am very grateful for the NHS, even though I am very fortunate to be well and able. I am grateful that people I know and their loved ones have been cared for at minimum cost, which helps ease such burdens. I am grateful that when Nick’s grandfather was ill and had to go to hospital, there was little to worry about other than the state of his health, because the NHS was there.

I am not so sure that my children would worry as little we did for their grandfather, my beloved father-in-law.

It is this uncertainty that is making everyone worry. And I don’t want to get used to it.

Going Lo-Fi

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I’ve been taking photographs since I was about nine years old. I’ve had a variety of cameras, from inherited to kid-friendly indestructible to proper grown-up film SLR to my current pair of digital compact and digital SLR.

But a couple of years ago, I made a discovery, and bought one of these:

It’s a Holga 120GN. It’s made entirely of plastic, but the lens is glass. It doesn’t run on batteries, it’s entirely mechanical, and it uses medium format film. You can get an attachment that will allow the use of 35mm film, but I quite like the medium format option, especially as I can have square photos.

Because it means I get to use 120 films like the Fuji Pro 400H, and get photos like these:

There is an unearthly quality that a plastic camera gives to these photos. The light leaks in randomly, and odd vignettes happen. And being film, I have no idea how these photos will come out. Or if my framing was even right, because the viewfinder isn’t in line with the lens. I kind of have to guess, and it’s still a total crap-shoot. But that’s what makes it exciting.

I haven’t been doing much lomography lately, but something caught my eye a couple of weeks ago amidst the photography blogs I followed, and I decided to at last treat myself to an early birthday gift.

I have always wanted an LC-A. From the moment I got back my photographs taken with the Holga I knew that this would be my next step. But I held back for a long time, partially due to its price, but largely because I hadn’t really been doing much with lomography.

But this one is special.

It comes in a special wooden box. There is a huge hardcover book inside with a gorgeous collection of photographs and techniques and tips.

It’s metallic-chromed and wrapped in genuine leather. It has a beautiful weight to it. And it’s limited edition.

I can’t wait to head out with it.

Fruity FOs: Boysenberry Yo & Rambutan

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When the amazing Cookie A announced that she was going to run a sock club back in 2010, I couldn’t resist. Club members would get two sock patterns per instalment –  one simple pattern, the other more challenging in the style of Cookie A – to go with our one skein of yarn and two cookie recipes.

Me being the easily-distracted, slow knitter that I am, I have only so far managed two of last year’s twelve pairs, and bizarrely enough both of them are fruit-themed.

Pattern: Boysenberry Yo, by Cookie A (April 2011 instalment)
Yarn: Dream in Color Smooshy in Visual Purple
Needles: 2.5mm

I actually finished these last August, and I’ve worn them a couple of times already, but I kept missing opportunities to photograph them. I finally got around to it yesterday when the sun was out.

The lovely thing about these socks is that this was the yarn I took along to my first ever Cookie A workshop, way back in 2009. I remember choosing it because I knew it would stand up to repeated ripping back, but I never designed anything with it in the end, and it sat in my stash for a while.

Getting two patterns per instalment is a great thing because it means you can use the club yarn for one pattern and something from the stash for the other. That was what I did with this. I thought it appropriate, given that despite the fact that I’ve been a Cookie A fan since I began knitting, this is the first time I’ve knitted one of her designs.

I know. Shameful in so many ways from so many directions.

This was a great pattern to knit. I knit most of one sock on a train journey; the pattern had such a nice simple rhythm to it and it was almost effortless.

Much more recently, I finished these:

Pattern: Rambutan Socks, by Cookie A (December 2011 instalment)
Yarn: Socktopus Sokkusu Original in Princess and the Pea
Needles: 2.5mm

This was the yarn Ling gave me to knit a sample with. I dithered about for ages trying to choose a pattern, and finally decided that the colours of this yarn reminded me of slightly under-ripe rambutan, so I figured it was destiny.

(Also, I love rambutan. It’s one of my favourite fruit, and it reminds me of a dear late uncle of mine, who had his own tree, and if you saw his car coming up the road to the house, you know he’s got bunches of it in tow.)

This was a quick knit, for me. Under four weeks for the pair. As there was a right and left sock, it definitely killed any notion of Second Sock Syndrome, not that I really suffer from it. This was lovely to knit, and the yarn, of course, is beautiful. I fear I might become quite addicted to Sokkusu Original.

It did occur to me, later on, that I might have had the socks on the wrong feet. The pattern is meant to swerve towards the outside of the foot, rather than the inside. But they still look good, right?

I’m kind of sad that I won’t be able to keep these, but I enjoyed knitting them so much that I’m glad to be adding to Alice and Ling’s samples. This design just shows off the colours so well, the ladies should be very pleased with their work.

And what am I knitting now?

Yup. More socks.

February Round-Up

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It’s now the end of February, and we have an extra day!

Sadly I spent my extra day at college, potting on seedlings and cuttings and talking about my horticultural future, the latter having had me on edge for a week and has now left me with a massive reality check. If I had any confidence, it would be bruised right now, but as I’m realistic, it didn’t hurt too much. There are still good things to consider, though, so that’s all right.

I didn’t quite finish any spinning this month. I have one bobbin spun up, the first of a three-ply, but not much else. I also haven’t finished a project I was hoping to finish this month, but as the deadline is actually for the end of March, I’m not beating myself up too badly about it.

I am nearly finished with this, though…

… so you’ll get to see that soon.

And here’s the rest of this month’s round-up. I think I’ve done pretty well!

Read: The Boys Vol. 1-9, by Garth Ennis, illustrated by Darick Robertson (Vol. 1-2 from home, Vol. 3-9 from the library). Not for the faint of heart. So much so I almost couldn’t believe that the library had all the volumes in. There is a lot of wince-inducing stuff in The Boys, but I can’t help but find it very entertaining. A bit like a really hilarious, really high-body count train wreck. It does get a little wordy when it’s filling out back story, as in the chapters I Tell You No Lie G.I in Vol.3 and Barbary Coast in Vol. 9, but I doubt I could’ve come up with a better solution. Can’t wait for the next volume to come out.

Hounded and Hexed, by Kevin Hearne (paperback). I picked this up on impulse. You can’t have a critical tagline that reads, “American Gods meets Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden” and not expect my ears to prick up. There is a third book, Hammered, which I’ve yet to read, and in my opinion the books are better if you treat all three as a single story stretched over three books, rather than separate episodes of their own a la The Dresden Files. Atticus is perfectly wise, clueless and powerful as a Druid ought to be, and remains believably human, but as with books of this sort, gods are either petulant, manipulative or utter arseholes. Guess which Thor is…

Watched: The Hurt Locker, dir. Kathyrn Bigelow, 2009 (Film4). I waited way too long to see this. I loved it. It’s hard to say that I adored it, because as a scholarly Muslim I found many things in the film hard to accept. It’s funny that I avoid the news so that I can avoid seeing what some Muslims are willing to do to each other for their own agendas, but this film made me see it, and it is no less true. As a war film it is clean, sharp, pared down to the minimum – the sniper siege is electrifying – and covered in dust and grime, and that is how it should be. Totally need to own this on DVD now.

My Dog Tulip, dir. Paul Fierlinger, 2009 (BBC4). I kind of tripped over this one in that I sort of knew in the back of my mind that it was on but I wasn’t sure at what time. But there it was, and I remembered that Empire liked it, so I cuddled down. It’s a very sweet animated film, quite surreal in places in terms of the art style, but Christopher Plummer’s narration and characterization of J. R. Ackerley completely make the film. Not really a kid’s animation as it’s quite preoccupied with a dog’s sex life and bowel movements, but perfect for a juvenile adult like me. I’m quite glad I watched this the night Plummer finally won an Academy award.

The Artist, dir. Michel Hazanavicius, 2011 (Greenwich Picture House). Firstly, the Greenwich Picture House is now probably going to be our go-to cinema. It is quiet, beautiful and comfortable, and the staff are crazy-friendly. Secondly, the film is made of perfection. It is sparkling, wonderful and beautiful to look at. The score is appropriately cheeky and dramatic in the right places, and everything about this film is timing. It’s the timing of the performers that make this film the wonder that it is. I am so happy that I went to see it.