They've got Ducks. Ducks on the Wall.
So, I'm sitting here, checking out the knitting blogs, and I discover that there's a retirement home in Tasmania where the inhabitants have knit an entire 1950's style room.
No, really. They've got knitted tea cakes, they've got a knitted radio, they've got knitted cups and saucers and mugs and books, and.....
No, really. Go see. I'll still be here when you get back.
Told ya, huh? And you didn't believe me.
"Life doesn't just finish...it begins anew when you enter a retirement home," the director of the program says.
Well, I for, one, am damn terrified by this. True, true, this is all happening on the other side of the world, but it's only a matter of time till the retirement home down the street starts enticing its inhabitants to knit furniture and tacky accoutrements.
I'm comforted only by the thought that by the time I hit the retirement home myself, what is clearly eventually going to be a Whole New Fad will have passed, and I will perhaps be allowed to sit around NOT knitting an entire 1950's room. Or even a 1970's room, which would be, I guess, what my generation would be knitting.
Though, now that I think of it, I might enjoy knitting acid trips in my old age.
But see, then I'd want to give them away.
Yes, that's a plan. I'll be all old and the child will have grown up and be wanting to lovingly fulfill all his duties to his adored mum, so I'll knit him all sorts of gawdawful crap and then give it to him and he'll take it home, and his significant others will say, oh, no, not more! And he'll say yes, let's put it in the closet, and they'll all say, no, no, there's no more room! And then on Christmas they'll all come get me for a little outing and take me home, so they'll all have to drag out all the 1970's acid trips and display them in the living room.
For Christmas.
Yep. This'll be good.
Though, to be truthful, my deep reaction of unadulterated horror to the 1950's knitted room causes me to wonder why I'm so enchanted by the idea of knitting the English Fry-Up Purse and the Raw Chicken Viking Hat for the darling pregnant colleague.
I think it would be nice to be a person who made sense.
But I'm not. Yes to occasional knitted food wearables. No to entire 1950's knitted rooms. I don't know where the boundary is, but I know it's in there.
***********************************
Update! Update! Apparently, not all of you immediately recognize the literary allusion of the title.
Well, we certainly can't have that. Click here. ("My baby's got the most deplorable taste, but her biggest mistake is hanging over the fireplace...")
No, really. They've got knitted tea cakes, they've got a knitted radio, they've got knitted cups and saucers and mugs and books, and.....
No, really. Go see. I'll still be here when you get back.
Told ya, huh? And you didn't believe me.
"Life doesn't just finish...it begins anew when you enter a retirement home," the director of the program says.
Well, I for, one, am damn terrified by this. True, true, this is all happening on the other side of the world, but it's only a matter of time till the retirement home down the street starts enticing its inhabitants to knit furniture and tacky accoutrements.
I'm comforted only by the thought that by the time I hit the retirement home myself, what is clearly eventually going to be a Whole New Fad will have passed, and I will perhaps be allowed to sit around NOT knitting an entire 1950's room. Or even a 1970's room, which would be, I guess, what my generation would be knitting.
Though, now that I think of it, I might enjoy knitting acid trips in my old age.
But see, then I'd want to give them away.
Yes, that's a plan. I'll be all old and the child will have grown up and be wanting to lovingly fulfill all his duties to his adored mum, so I'll knit him all sorts of gawdawful crap and then give it to him and he'll take it home, and his significant others will say, oh, no, not more! And he'll say yes, let's put it in the closet, and they'll all say, no, no, there's no more room! And then on Christmas they'll all come get me for a little outing and take me home, so they'll all have to drag out all the 1970's acid trips and display them in the living room.
For Christmas.
Yep. This'll be good.
Though, to be truthful, my deep reaction of unadulterated horror to the 1950's knitted room causes me to wonder why I'm so enchanted by the idea of knitting the English Fry-Up Purse and the Raw Chicken Viking Hat for the darling pregnant colleague.
I think it would be nice to be a person who made sense.
But I'm not. Yes to occasional knitted food wearables. No to entire 1950's knitted rooms. I don't know where the boundary is, but I know it's in there.
***********************************
Update! Update! Apparently, not all of you immediately recognize the literary allusion of the title.
Well, we certainly can't have that. Click here. ("My baby's got the most deplorable taste, but her biggest mistake is hanging over the fireplace...")
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