Dressing For A Stereotype

So for my 18^th I went out with some of my lady friends, and my brother, so a gay club. We booked a hotel, and set up camp there a few hours before we went out so we could get ready. We did each other’s hair and makeup. We chose what we wanted to wear and got dressed. We did our nails. We drank wine. It was fun, and we looked lovely. Heels on. We were good to go. (My brother is excluded from this paragraph. And most of the post actually – I just thought I should get the context accurate.)

When we actually got the club, however, it became apparent within about thirty seconds that we had come in fancy dress as drag queens; compared to pretty much every other girl there. We were not gay club material; not for woman any way. We looked good, but we looked like straight girls. Which, I suppose, was totally fine for the rest of them. They’re all straight as knitting needles. Although not my knitting needles, they’re all old, knackered and bent. Which is a horrible reflection on my life.

I was unprepared for the gay club. I was not Dyke. I didn’t have the uniform. It was like I’d rocked up in fancy dress of the wrong sexuality. Although going back through the photos, I look like a rather fey Noel Fielding; not all queerness was lost.

From what I can gather, the Dyke Uniform isn’t all that hard to achieve; checked shirt and (ironically) boyfriend jeans. High tops or converse. No makeup, short nails, a lot of piercings and a leather jacket. Probably what you’d go to Tesco in, but with everything from All Saints.

It’s good to know that lesbians dress as a stereotype; it leaves less room for error. However, it is nigh on impossible to say which stereotype they’re aiming for; lesbian or Canadian.

It was a good night. Of course it was. We got this photograph out of it.

Disclaimer: At the end of this post I feel I should probably apologize so A) lesbians, B) drag queens and C) Canadians. 

My Bipolar Relationship With Knitting

I do not claim to be very good at knitting. I can do a decent amount of work, and I can do it kind of quickly - as long as I'm not doing anything too complex. But that doesn't mean I'm good at it. However, I do enjoy it. In the same way that a recovering crack addict enjoys a relapse. That's a horrifying, but shockingly good metaphor. 
I go through phases - two, to be precise. First, I won't really knit at all. I'll look despondently at the needles and yarn on my floor, and sign, and carry on my way. Maybe every now and then I'll have a bit of a guilt trip, pick them an old project, knit a couple of stitches, sigh again, and carry on my way. This is a very vague state. I'll feel annoyed at myself. I'll end up doing a lot of heavy breathing, and thinking you could be doing something so much more productive right now. The needles will gather dust, and my messages will build up on Ravelry, until people just assume I've died, and been eaten by my gazillion cats. Then'll I'll forget for another three months and go back to frolicking heavily on the internet. 
The second phase is rather akin to a very crafty grandmother finally being let out of prison and being allowed pointy objects again. I will seize those needles, rip away any former projects I had going, and start afresh. God forbid anyone tries to hug me for the next few weeks, as certain death becomes a threat with every pair of needles and yarn I have stashed in every bag and pocket. Suddenly, any and all money I have will be thrown into buying nicer yarn, and better needles, and books about how to knit jackets that I don't have anywhere near the skill level for. If I'm given a free thirty seconds I will have whipped my wool out and done as many stitches as I have time for. I ill knit in lessons, on the bus, in bed, and in the cinema (but only if the film's really boring). 
I'm all or nothing when it comes to knitting. I'm either clean, or high as a kite.
And I've learnt something, writing this post, something very important.
Trying to make drug analogies with knitting really doesn't work. 
Sorry.