Yes, radegund, glitzfrau and I met at the canal yesterday morning, whereupon radegund drove us to the outer 'burbs to buy wool. Wool, glorious wool! And amid the shelves of dreadful synthetics were some gorgeous treasures, and I bought two skeins of what's yarn no.4 on this page, which is much lovelier in real life than in photographs. It's like knitting with the sea. We went back to radegund's house, and I finally met the Oyster, who is absolutely enchanting and who was a delightful host, offering La Glitz and me his ball, his little trolly thing filled with alphabet bricks, and his half-chewed bread. He's just the cutest, jolliest baby ever (tied with the Gnome, of course), and may be a knitter of the future, if his interest in playing with our collective stash is any indication.
So, baby played with and put down for his afternoon siesta, we gathered together our wool, and radegund used to her wool-fu to roll my tangled skein of wool into a ball (wool winding really does need two people; I'd have been screwed if she hadn't helped me and I'd waited until I got home) and an afternoon of knitting and tea and conversation and scrambled eggs began. I really like knitting in company, so I hope a regular knitting circle will happen in the future; I got so much done in just a couple of hours (and radegund's wool-fu came in handy more than once). So, a good day was had by, well, me anyway, and I hope all. And to top it all I got home in time for the X Factor, which continues to mesmerise me and also, shamefully, to make me cry when people get through and they're not expecting it. I am a sap. No, seriously, I cry all the way through it sometimes. It's disgraceful.
And I almost cried -WITH RAGE- at the sheer horribleness of Ryan Tubridy. To those outside this land of saints and scholars, Mr Tubridy is a 30-something TV host who has been acting like a smug 50 year old since he was about 15. He is ODIOUS. And he is incredibly sexist and patronising and so, so, incredibly pleased with himself and he makes me want to kick him. After witnessing his crappy show - in which he managed to smarm at his likeable female guests in a truly cack-handed way - last night, Patrick and I wrote a song to express our hatred, with me tapdancing a beat between lines. Very impressive. No, seriously. It stopped me crying, anyway.
I did not cry at missbassey's husband's radio stardom, though. But I did find myself thinking during the introduction"oh, same name as [Mr Bassey], hmmm, same location, hang on, same job - heavens, same voice!" I'm a bit jealous of him for getting to be on Radio 4, though. Sharing the airwaves with the Grundy/Carter love triangle! The glamour!