This lady will be your point of contact...

If one is a person of a particular persuasion, one is to wont to immerse one's particular self in activities of a somewhat addictive nature. When I first met Julie, I remember we compared climbing and knitting. There are many similarities between the two - indeed, climbing is an anagram of knitting, but only the cleverest of you will discern the logic in that statement. Anyway and anyway, it does take a certain type of person to knit so earnestly and for such durations that the eyes protest and protrude, making them useful for potato printing but not much else. The gist here is that Julie knits a lot, and thus that not merely one, but two, are persons of a particular persuasion.

As an aside, it's probably truer to say that Julie's quiver-thrill response to the sight of a horse is more akin to my relationship with rocks, but that doesn't suit the purposes of my post. And the porpoise* is this: Guerilla Knitting!

It seems that every sphere of interest encompasses a wide range of personalities, and even knitting has its Rambos. These bold wool-weaponed warriors quest forth and target sites of strategic unimportance. Once the target is selected, there is no escape. Quick as you can say a few words, the needles are employed and the target is enveloped in devastating prettiness. Objects thus transformed range from the very small, to the very not small. Guerillas call this yarn-bombing.

Guerrila knitters are the free solo big-wallers of the knitting scene. As a boulderer, I probably fall into the cross-stitching camp.

Anyway and anyway, having detected these cross-over areas, I made the mistaken assumption that all things climbing must have a knitting counterpart. Climbers travel many miles to visit meccas of rock. What locations call to knitters with the same mermaid allure?

"None."

"What?"

"Can't think of any."

Perhaps I should have guessed. After all, mermaids leave sailors stranded on the rocks, precisely where climbers yearn to be. There is no mythical creature, as far as I know, that leaves voyagers trapped in the tangles of wool.

Thus, if you want to know why we are in Smurf, blame the Greeks. If their imagination had been a little less blinkered, Julie might have been drawn by the power of metaphor to somewhere else entirely. As it was, Julie had a fancy for the west coast, and I for adventure. So here we are. See:

On a bridge - King's Park

And now we are here, what next? Well, given the tardiness of my blogging and the speed at which events have unfolded, next has already happened. Like ships dropping anchor, we have both stabilsed ourselves with the weight of our obsessions. Julie's needles have become lodged in some murky waters indeed. I began this post with a title that may seem lifted from a badly written thriller. Actually, it came from an email that Julie showed me. Don't tell anyone, but I worry she is being led astray. I am watching her carefully for symptoms of femme fatale-ness. I have heard the ears show the first signs of change. So far, colour, orientation and response to stimuli (whilst she is asleep) all seem normal.

But if I end up mummified in wool, I'll know which guerrila to blame.

Enough for now. I wool be back.

___________________

*Sea what I did there?