Tag Archive: Yarn bombing

A plane did not crash into my house last night

Plenty of other things happened, but my roof was untouched by a falling Bowing 737. Why do we need to know this? I’m borrowing a technique from a Marian Keyes’ character. Things seem particularly crappy. Coping method = at least you have been spared a gigantic catastrophe; thereby lessening the crappiness of your own circumstance.
My particular brand of crappiness started in earnest last Friday.

Woke up late. Kids cranky. Torrential rain. Work truck blocking laneway, driver leisurely conversing with neighbour. Late dropping child # 1 to school. New system involves parading parent and child at school office, receive printout with child picture, branded with words ‘unexplained/unjustified’ if suitable excuse not offered. Unexplainedly Child # 2 cried and clung bodily to me at her dropoff. Hugging + platitudes ineffective. Started fitness regime 2 weeks ago. Boxericse this morning. Group trains at park in front of beach. No-one there when I arrive. Resevoirs of will power used to turn up to this class after extreme stiffness and general unfitness of previous session. Could really have used the punching bag.
Escaped polar bear did NOT ram into my car and detach three of my toes.

Went to nearby friend’s café instead. Weeks before had sewn two entire poles with stripy yarn bombing when friends opened the café. One person complained (about the beauty??) Local council (same day) sent worker to destroy knitting with stanely knife. Dangerous footpaths are far less important, apparently. Petition at café bedgraggled and signed by one ‘Julia Roberts’. So many people loved the knitting, commented when I am sewing it. Yet only one other person posted on council Facebook page. Council ignoring posts about destroying public art.
Council worker did NOT explode in flames.

All this before 10am. Blah blah. Day did not improve much. Including deep cut to finger. Fast forward to Saturday.

Single parent struggles to get out of house on day when kids with father. Despite distressed state of house after week of over energetic kids + exhausted mother. Thanks to broken nose and facial lacerations from fall on uneven footpath weeks earlier, have to spend time carefully applying makeup.
Push myself to join new Meetup groups. City centre French speaking breakfast (yay). Time getting kids ready, applying makeup + Saturday traffic = too late to make it.
Flock of flesh eating moths did NOT take up residence in my bedroom.

Try again with Meet up. Apparently happy friendly crowd meeting in city Sat night. Find carpark in city – ‘$9 Night special’ sign flashes brightly on street. After 31 minutes of crawling up, then down 10 floors, is patently clear carpark has been full for some time. Heated conversation with moron who stops car, blocking five floors of traffic trying to escape this concrete hell. Best forgotten about really. Find another carpark. Eventually find bar. Did not find Meetup group. Not answering provided phone number. Barstaff have no idea where they are. Searched 3 levels. Psychic abilities fail me. Go home. That took 3.5 hours. Next day several people who also could not find group loudly ignored by organiser.
Did NOT eat Ecoli-riddled egg roll.

Conclusion. Some days you’re the fly. Some days you’re the windshield.

Thoughts, dear reader?


The statue gets some socks


It was just a matter of time before the guerilla knitting would stretch a little to left, and land on Patrick Kavanagh. Just a little. Today, Patrick got himself a pair of socks. And I had a few more interesting conversations – one aul guy said he was also from County West Meath, and that “We only send our bad poets to Dublin,” before taking my picture and laughing at his own joke.

A country bus driver and I had a long chat, telling me that – being known as a grumpy old fella – Patrick Kavanagh was not known for wearing matching socks. But the bus driver liked these matching socks, and after finding out what Guerilla knitting is, he also took a picture. Then he smiled shaking his head at the concept, and asked me ‘What am I known as? do I have a ‘tag’? God love him!

Back to this well-known and much-visited statue / bench. For those not native to Ireland, Patrick Kavanagh was a renowned poet. Who was also remembered for enjoying a pint, sometimes a little too much; for his disheveled appearance; and perhaps a robust exchange of views here and there. My mum told me, (after smiling at the socks in situ, replacing the slightly baffled look she gives me when I’m often knitting) that local legend says he was barred from a few of the local pubs. Including one a few hundred metres from where his statue/seat has sat for a decade or two, and another ‘Canal bank seat’ for four decades or more. Mmmm. Seems Patrick had the last laugh there.

Writing this post has prompted me to look up some of Patrick Kavanagh’s poetry again. Though I’m no poetry afficiniado –  reading “Lines written on a seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin,” has moved me all over again. I so appreciate this man’s talent, and I remember my Dad. Who like Patrick Kavanagh, often sat next to the canal while recuperating through that dreadful disease. Patrick survived it, but Des didn’t.

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin

'Erected to the memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien'

O commemorate me where there is water, 
Canal water, preferably, so stilly
Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother
Commemorate me thus beautifully
Where by a lock niagarously roars
The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence
Of mid-July.  No one will speak in prose
Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands. 
A swan goes by head low with many apologies, 
Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - 
And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far-flung towns mythologies.
O commemorate me with no hero-courageous 
Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.

Copyright © Estate of Katherine Kavanagh

So here’s a picture of Dad’s tree, complete with his first granddaughter.


And the tree grows on


Finally got back to the tree today and started sewing. The guerilla knit has outgrown me though … need to come back with a stool to reach the top bit 🙂 Loads of people stopped for a chat, at least 4 saying “Ahh, You’re the one who’s been doing this. Been wondering who it was.” hee hee.

ImageGreat conversations, though ran out of time. More colourful bits and bobs coming.


Loving the guerilla knitting!