Monday 21 August 2017

Published: Lotus Blossom Wrap pattern

My latest magazine commission is now available from all good newsagents!




I’ve recently had another pattern published, this time in Knit Now magazine. This is another rectangular wrap, like my Poplar Tree Wrap. It looks very different, though, and uses my new favourite stitch: lotus flower.

My Lotus Blossom Wrap pattern in situ. This features in Knit Now 77.

The brief for this was Indian summer, so I wanted something inspired by India’s national flower, the lotus. I Googled it, thinking it might bring up some images I could use as a base to create a lotus using yarn overs or different textured stitches.

Instead it came up with the lotus flower stitch. This is created by knitting five times into a knit five together. This makes a stitch that looks like a five-petalled flower resembling a lotus floating on water. I had the main body of a wrap. Next I worked out a lacy leaf edging to complete the piece.

I wanted a varigated silk yarn for this, and the one suggested by the magazine was lovely. It felt luxurious and the yellow, orange and red colour wss so vibrant. I almost changed the name of the pattern to Fire Lotus, but decided not to as not everyone would use that colour or even that yarn.

The silk wasn’t perfect, though. The dye stained my fingers yellow – I looked like I had an 80-a-day Woodbines habit. So if you do use it, take care. I would also suggest giving the finished wrap a wash to get out any stray dye.

The wrap appears in Knit Now 77, which is on sale right now from newsagents and the magazine’s own website.

A close-up of the leaf edging and lotus flower stitches.

Tuesday 15 August 2017

New pattern: Poplar Tree Lace Wrap now available

My most recent pattern is now live on Love Knitting




WELL that was quick! It was only yesterday that I wrote about my Poplar Tree Lace Wrap knitting pattern awaiting approval on Love Knitting. That same evening I received an email confirming that my pattern had been published. Indeed it has, and it can be found here.

Please do take a look, share it with any other knitters you know and, of course, you could buy it …

The Poplar Tree Lace Wrap by Idoru Knits.

Monday 14 August 2017

Poplar Tree Lace Wrap knitting pattern

My latest pattern is finished and currently waiting approval. Fingers crossed!




FIRST some exciting news: someone bought one of my patterns! My Stars and Stripes Fingerless Mitts crochet pattern is live over on Love Crochet. And just last week it was downloaded for the first time. I’ve asked in the pattern that if anyone makes the mitts to share on social media and to tag me. I really hope they do. I’d love to see their finished product and hear what they think of both the mitts and the pattern itself.

 My latest pattern was submitted to Love Knitting for approval on 11 July. It takes five working days for approval so I’m currently waiting with baited breath. This is a rectangular lacy wrap: Poplar Tree Lace Wrap knitting pattern.

I really like the way this has turned out. I originally made the pattern for Knit Now magazine and I didn’t like the yarn they chose. It was varigated, which I think is wrong for lace as it disguises the pattern, and a double knit, which I thought too heavy. So I reworked it for Scrumptious Lace by Fyberspates. This is a gorgeous luxury yarn and a solid colour. You can make the whole wrap with one skein, so it doesn’t end up costing too much. I think it works much better in this yarn.

I should find out if the pattern has been approved by the end of this week (18 July 2017). I’ll post a link as soon as I have one...

My Poplar Tree Lace Wrap. I really like this. It's a fun knit and makes up surprisingly quickly.

Wednesday 26 July 2017

Big Sam version 2

This was for an assignment for a creative writing course I did. This was my original idea, but I soon realised I wouldn't be able to fit it into the 1,000-word limit, so I changed tack. That version can be read here. But I wanted to continue with my first idea, and this is the result.




THE man checks his watch and grins. Same time, same place, every day. He pushes the street cleaning machine up the dropped curb and onto the pavement, stopping in exactly the same spot outside McDonald's as every other morning. He switches the machine off and locks its wheels in place. He checks the heavy-duty black plastic bag; it's half full, just as it should be at this point in his morning routine. He pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt before yanking open the heavy glass door and entering the restaurant.

At the counter he orders the same thing he does every morning: bacon and egg mcmuffin with fries and a large black coffee. He waits the few moments it takes for the order to be prepared and then carries it over to his usual table. He settles into the yellow moulded chair, his food and drink carefully arranged in front of him. He starts, as ever, with the coffee. First stirring in three sugars, he takes a sip of the hot, black liquid. The sweet, insipid taste floods his mouth as he swallows, relishing the slight burning sensation at the back of his throat. He unwraps the muffin and takes a large bite. He chews enthusiastically, shoves a few of the fries into his mouth. The muffin is demolished in two more bites and he turns his attention to the fries, finishing them with the same efficiency. He wriggles his ample backside against the smooth, cool plastic of the seat and holds his cardboard coffee cup in both hands.

His colleagues on the council cleaning team can't understand his love for McDonald's, the cheap fast food and watery coffee, or his pleasure at the ritual repeated every morning, but he doesn't care – it's his routine and he's going to stick to it. He smacks his lips as he drains the last of his drink and congratulates himself on a job well done. Gathering up the detritus from his breakfast to be tipped into the bin on his way out, he returns to his cleaning machine on the street.

Big Sam they call him at the council and he knows they laugh at him behind his back because of his routine, but he doesn’t care. Order is important.

***

Sam checks his watch. He grins – he’s done it again. Same time, same place, same ritual. The girl behind the McDonald’s counter smiles at him; she’s already started on his order. He pays for his food with the exact change, and takes his tray to his usual spot.

Sam freezes. He blinks hard and, balancing the tray with one fist, rubs his hand across his eyes. But when he opens his eyes the interloper is still there. A boy sitting, no slouching, in Sam’s seat. The seat that he always sits in. The boy can’t be older than 15, wearing a hoodie and jeans that must be at least three sizes too big. He’s shovelling fries into his mouth, chewing loudly.

Sam doesn’t know what to do. In all the years he’s been coming here this has never happened. He waits. That kid should be on his way to school, Sam thinks, outraged. But the boy shows no sign of moving. Seconds stretch to minutes and Sam’s food is getting cold. He will have to sit down and eat. But where? He manoeuvres to a table close to the invader and sits down.

He tucks into his breakfast, but finds he can’t enjoy it. He eats quickly, glaring at the teenager in his seat. But it makes no difference. The boy doesn’t even notice. Sam abandons the remains of his meal on the tray and leaves the restaurant.

***

The display on his digital wristwatch informs Sam that, as ever, he’s arrived at McDonald’s at exactly the right time. But for once he doesn’t feel like congratulating himself. Instead he’s apprehensive – what if that awful teenage boy is in his spot again?

He cautiously enters the restaurant, forcing himself to look only at the counter. He doesn’t want to crane his neck around and see his seat already occupied. He’s determined that he’ll behave exactly as he has done in all the years he’s been coming to this McDonald’s on the Lewisham high street. The person behind the counter has changed, he notices. This doesn’t concern him – the ephemeral nature of the staff is, paradoxically, one of the many constants about McDonald’s that Sam finds so reassuring.

Sam orders his usual meal and as the server passes the loaded tray, Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’ll be all right, he reassures himself. He turns towards the seat, his seat, and there he is, the invader, the cat among Sam’s well-ordered ranks of pigeons. Sam is horrified. This time, he decides, this time he isn’t just going to put up with it.

He marches to the table and hauls his bulk into a seat on the opposite side to the boy; the wrong side, it feels strange and Sam thinks he doesn’t quite fit, like there’s slightly less space on this side of the table. The boy frowns.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Granddad?” He asks, his belligerent tone masking his shock.

“This is my table,” says Sam. “I always sit here.”

“Not today, you don’t.”

Sam ignores him and starts to eat. “How old are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school?” He asks after a while.

The boy shrugs. “No point, innit. What does school get you?”

“An education. A proper job.” Sam indicates his green council-supplied overalls: “You don’t want to spend your life wearing these, do you?”

The truth is Sam loves his job. He believes he’s doing good – keeping the borough clean and nice. But he knows that most people look down on him. He didn’t finish school, didn’t get any qualifications and if he regrets that now he knows it’s too late for him. But this kid is just starting out.

The boy shifts uncomfortably in the plastic seat, recalling the argument with his dad. The old man was a loser, and the boy tried to tell himself that he didn’t really care.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Sam asked. “I’m Big Sam.”

Sam’s voice pulls the boy from his reverie. “Oh, yeah. Paul.”

Sam nods as if he somehow expected this answer. He turns his attention to his breakfast and for a while silence rules.

And then Paul begins to speak. He’s not even sure why, but this quiet, big man instills a kind of trust. “It was my dad, weren’t it? He said school’s no good for the likes of me. Said I’d never amount to nothing anyway, so’s I might as well not go.”

There’s a catch in Paul’s voice as he talks, and Sam briefly glances at him; the boy doesn’t notice, he’s staring down at the scratched plastic table. He reminds Sam of a frightened puppy and the big man knows that he’ll have to be careful not to scare the boy off. Sam hasn’t got kids of his own, but his sister Jemima had four strong boys and Sam had always been good with them.

Sam thinks of his own pa, how he was no more than 18 years old when he’d given up everyone and everything he knew to get on a leaky ship to London. That journey from the West Indies almost killed him, he always said, The only thing that kept him alive was determination; Winston knew that he was meant for better things than death at sea. He would make it to Great Britain and make a life there.

Winston found a home in Lewisham and there he met tall, beautiful Ghanian Wanda, whom he courted and married and who gave him two children. But Wanda failed to flourish in cold, wet London and every year there seemed to be less of her, until eventually she was just gone.

Sam wonders what Winston would say right now. Winston, who had always told his children that they could be whatever they wanted, who had worked three jobs to give his kids the best start in life he could, and who had dropped dead of a heart attack at 50. He was simply exhausted, the doctors said. Winston would never have allowed the words ‘never amount to anything’ pass his lips, especially not where his children were concerned.

“Well, it seems to me,” Sam said, slowly and thoughtfully, “that maybe your pa’s jealous.”

Paul opens his mouth, ready to defend any perceived slights to his family, but he realises there were none. He thinks on what Sam said. “Why would he be jealous of me?”

“He sees that you got all kindsa opportunities he never had. He’ll be worried that some day you’ll just leave him behind.”

Paul pulls a face. He’s not convinced; far as he can tell it’s the other way round: his dad’s the one leaving him behind, him and his mum. But what if Big Sam has a point, Paul wonders. His dad always said he didn’t have much time for education, but maybe the truth was that education had never had much time for him.

Sam thinks he can almost see the thoughts whirring behind Paul’s eyes. He doesn’t know why he cares about this kid who has now ruined his breakfast two days on the run. But for some reason he does. Somehow it matters to get just this one boy back into school where maybe he can make something of his life.

“My old pa always said people could be anything they wanted to, so long as they tried hard enough.

Paul laughs. “Yeah? So how come you ended up sweeping the streets?”

There’s a silence as Big Sam turns his head to stare hard at the boy. “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough,” he says.

Paul frowns. He feels like he’s been tricked somehow, but he’s not sure how. He thinks over Sam’s words; they make sense. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow having the wool pulled. The boy gets up to leave, sliding his skinny bum along the slippery seat. He doesn’t say goodbye, but as he passes Sam, the older man mutters “See you tomorrow?” Paul nods.

The next day Sam finds himself hurrying on his round just a bit. He arrives at McDonald’s before 9am and cranes his neck to see if Paul is at what he’s already thinking of as ‘their’ table. The boy is there and Sam realises he’s pleased, and he doesn’t at all mind that he’s early.

Paul picks disinterestedly at his fries, his eyes darting towards the door every few seconds. He clocks Sam and the corners of his mouth turn up, until he catches himself and carefully puts his expression back into neutral.

Sam takes his food to the table, sits down and starts to eat. At first they sit in silence, but then: “Did you go?” Sam asks.

Paul shrugs his left shoulder. “Stuff to do,” he says. Sam nods his understanding, as if this truncated reason explains everything. “What ‘bout today?”

That shoulder rises again, almost touches the boy’s ear. It’s a gesture of defiance, but Sam sees the doubt in Paul’s eyes. He reckons he’s got the boy. Paul’s scared, though he’d never admit it, but the seed that Big Sam planted yesterday has taken root: school might not be such a bad idea. But Sam realises it’s today or never. If Paul procrastinates any longer he’ll talk himself out of it. Today is vital.

Sam leans back in his seat, stretches his long arms and with exaggerated movements looks at his watch. “Still plenty of time,” he says. A ghost of a smile appears on Paul’s face. The boy gets to his feet. “Fries are cold,” he says by way of explanation. He abandons his rubbish on the table, despite the many signs asking customers to use the bins. He doesn’t say goodbye, just takes his leave.

Big Sam’s mouth stretches into a grin that seems to cover his whole face. He’s proud – of himself and Paul. He’s already looking forward to seeing the boy the following day.

Sunday 25 June 2017

Big Sam

This is the final piece from the creative writing course I've just taken. I really enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it



The man checks his watch and grins. Same time, same place, every day. He pushes the street cleaning machine up the dropped curb and onto the pavement, stopping in exactly the same spot outside McDonald's as every other morning. He switches the machine off and locks its wheels in place. He checks the heavy-duty black plastic bag; it's half full, just as it should be at this point in his morning routine. He pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt before yanking open the heavy glass door and entering the restaurant.

At the counter he orders the same thing he does every morning: bacon and egg mcmuffin with fries and a large black coffee. He waits the few moments it takes for the order to be prepared and then carries it over to his usual table. He settles into the yellow moulded chair, his food and drink carefully arranged in front of him. He starts, as ever, with the coffee. First stirring in three sugars, he takes a sip of the hot, black liquid. The sweet, insipid taste floods his mouth as he swallows, relishing the slight burning sensation at the back of his throat. He unwraps the muffin and takes a large bite. He chews enthusiastically, shoves a few of the fries into his mouth. The muffin is demolished in two more bites and he turns his attention to the fries, finishing them with the same efficiency. He wriggles his ample backside against the smooth, cool plastic of the seat and holds his cardboard coffee cup in both hands.

His colleagues on the council cleaning team can't understand his love for McDonald's, the cheap fast food and watery coffee, or his pleasure at the ritual repeated every morning, but he doesn't care – it's his routine and he's going to stick to it. He smacks his lips as he drains the last of his drink and congratulates himself on a job well done. Gathering up the detritus from his breakfast to be tipped into the bin on his way out, he returns to his cleaning machine on the street.

Big Sam they call him at the council and he knows they laugh at him behind his back because of his routine, but he doesn’t care. Order is important.

***

Sam checks his watch. He grins - he’s done it again. Same time, same place, same ritual. The girl behind the McDonald’s counter smiles at him; she’s already started on his order. He pays for his food with the exact change, and takes his tray to his usual spot.

Sam freezes. He blinks hard and, balancing the tray with one fist, rubs his hand across his eyes. But when he opens his eyes the interloper is still there. A boy sitting, no slouching, in Sam’s seat. The seat that he always sits in. The boy can’t be older than 15, wearing a hoodie and jeans that must be at least three sizes too big. He’s shovelling fries into his mouth, chewing loudly.

Sam doesn’t know what to do. In all the years he’s been coming here this has never happened. He waits. That kid should be on his way to school, Sam thinks, outraged. But the boy shows no sign of moving. Seconds stretch to minutes and Sam’s food is getting cold. He will have to sit down and eat. But where? He manoeuvres to a table close to the invader and sits down.

He tucks into his food, but finds he can’t enjoy it. He eats quickly, glaring at the teenager in his seat. But it makes no difference. The boy doesn’t even notice. Sam abandons the detritus of his meal on the tray and leaves the restaurant.

In his haste, Sam has left the place early; he hasn’t checked his watch and, distressed by the presence of this stranger ruining his carefully planned routine, he isn’t looking where he’s going. The first he sees of the woman is when he collides with her. He’s a big man and he’s moving fast, she doesn’t stand a chance - she goes straight down and lands heavily on her backside. Just like a sack of potatoes, Sam thinks, and immediately recalls the disappointment of eating his fries in the wrong seat.

The woman emits a loud ‘oof!’ as the air is knocked out of her on impact with the pavement. Sam’s attention is pulled to the woman. She’s inspecting her palms, the skin has been scraped off. It stings, but it’s the only injury she’s sustained.

“Oh my word!” Sam exclaims. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” She squawks. “Sorry won’t get me up off this pavement.”

Abashed, he extends both hands to take hold of her wrists and help her back to her feet. Gently he pulls her to standing and as she rises he realises he knows her. She’s older - who isn’t? - but he would recognise those sparkling light brown eyes anywhere.

“Lottie?” He asks, still holding on to her bird-like wrists. “Lottie Mabuse? I sat next to you in English class.”

Lottie nods, but the look on her face is quizzical. She doesn’t recognise him. And then a smile breaks out, revealing a row of shiny white teeth behind her red lipstick. “Sam Benson,” she says. “You got big. And older. But I guess we all got that.” Rather sadly she touches her greying hair.

“Oh, but we should go out for a drink this evening. Talk about old times.”

Sam is gobsmacked. Go for a drink with this grown-up vision of the girl he had such a crush on at school? But this evening is Gogglebox on the telly and shepherd’s pie for dinner. He thinks about the boy in his seat, about how he wouldn’t have bumped into Lottie if that boy hadn’t been there. He grins and says: “Yes. Let’s do that.”

Monday 8 May 2017

Disco Inferno

I’m doing a free online course in fiction writing. The piece below was the first writing assignment, inspired by the first thing heard on the radio. I heard Burn, baby, burn! Disco inferno!




DISCO pulled the curly platinum blonde wig off her head to reveal her own short, greying locks. She pulled a face at herself in the mirror, the same one that George the landlord had stuck lightbulbs all round the edge. “Just like a real dressing room in one of them fancy theatres, Dis,” he'd said. “It won't be long till you've got one of your own, one with your name on the door.” But that was 30 years ago, and George and the mirror and the lightbulbs and Disco herself were all still there. “All a bit tarnished now,” she muttered to herself ruefully.

She tugged a baby wipe from the tube on the dressing table and started cleaning off her make-up. Underneath the thick foundation her skin was pale and lined. She was tired, she realised. She'd been Disco Inferno for so long, singing the same songs, performing the same dances, she could barely remember her real name or the mousy girl who had hidden behind the stage make-up and Marilyn Monroe wig.

She was only 50, but she felt like she was 100 years old. It was her birthday; no one had wished her happy birthday, not even George. She picked up the rapidly warming glass of chardonnay and saluted herself. “Half a century and what have you done with your life?” She asked the reflection in the mirror. No career, no family, no husband. George had asked once. Convinced she about to hit the big time, she'd said no. He never asked again.

“We've seen some changes round here, ain't we, Dis?” George had said to her earlier that evening. She grunted non-committally. She didn't want to be reminded of the lost years, of how she hadn't made it out of Deptford, hadn't even made it out of the Dog and Bell.

She dropped the soiled baby wipe in the waste paper bin and tossed back the rest of her wine in one gulp. She buttoned her faux fur coat over the skimpy outfit she knew was too young for her. She pushed open the door into the bar; George was still wiping down tables. “All right, Dis?” He said. “Another drink?”

“No, thanks. I've got to get off home.”

“Course.” He smiled and his face lit up.

He's got kind eyes, she thought. I should have said yes, all those years ago.

“See you next week, then?”

“Yeah, next week.” She smiled back and left the pub.

There was no one about as she walked along Watergate Street, going in the opposite direction to her tiny flat. She stopped at the edge of the Thames and stared down into the dark water. Would it be cold, she wondered. Would her body go numb before the sodden weight of her coat dragged her into the murky depths? “I'm sorry, George,” she whispered into the night, and took one final step.

Thursday 16 March 2017

Design notes: Stars and stripes crochet fingerless mitts

Learning a new crochet stitch inspired these warm and comfy fingerless mitts, the pattern for which is my first on Love Crochet




THIS pattern was inspired by a video on how to crochet the star stitch, which popped up on my Facebook timeline. How might I use that stitch? I asked myself and these fingerless mitts were what I came up with.

The star stitch creates a very thick, stiff fabric that I thought would make a really cosy mitt. The yarn I used was left over from another project, but I thought it would be ideal for this one. It’s acrylic so hard wearing but also very soft. An aran weight, it crochets up quickly and the colours really show off the pattern.

I really like the stripped effect and the way the yarn really shows off the star pattern

I wanted a ribbed cuff at both ends of the mitts. These are to help keep them in place, while the one that covers the fingers can be folded back to free up those digits if you need to use them – great for if you’re shopping at a farmers’ market and don’t want to take off your mitts and risk leaving them behind (or is it just me who does that?). I’ve been on crutches recently and discovered that the mitts are a great way of keeping your hands warm while having your fingers free to grip the crutch handles.

I adapted the star stitch slightly from the instructions given in the video. I think the resulting pattern stands out more, it looks more ‘starry’. As well as amending the star slightly, I also had to work out how to create a thumb. I figured it would simply be a case of adding some extra chains at the right place in the mitts and then working these stitches until the thumb piece was big enough.

I tested out several different ways of working the stitches: double crochets, half treble crochets, slip stitches, working just the front loop, the back loop and so on. In the end I went for the simplest option and I really like the way it turned out.

Please do check it out, let all your crafting friends know about it, and maybe even consider buying it

This is the first – and as yet only – pattern I’ve got on Love Crochet. So far I’ve had no sales; obviously I hope this changes. But my timing wasn’t great – I uploaded the pattern at the end of February, when crafters would be thinking about spring and summer makes rather than cosy mitts.

The pattern is available here. Please do check it out, let all your crafting friends know about it, and maybe even consider buying it. It’s never too early to start crocheting those Christmas presents ...