Since I started a new blog I’ve had a bad bad case of blogger’s block. The pressure to impress, make an impact, or something.. it’s all combined to send the brain cells into hibernation, and I’ve been sitting, staring at the screen, unable to think of anything worthy of typing, let alone hitting publish on. That, and the fact that my head is cluttered full of a zillion and one things I should be doing.
Maybe my best approach is to start with the daily journal-cum-diary approach. It’s at the risk of boring the pants off people, but sometimes it’s on the little bitty miscellaneous minutiae level of life that we click with others.
So I’m going to talk about netball bibs. (Right, there, I’ve lost 75% of my potential readership already.)
Because I’m too lazy to find the camera, here’s a picture I’ve flogged of a netball bib.
For those who don’t know netball, each of the seven positions on a netball team must wear identification, so at club and school level, the usual MO is to wear bib, like so. They are like a super-loose singlet – with elastic joining the bottom ends front to back.
All good, till the elastic inevitably breaks/loses its elasticity, and then some sucker has to volunteer to fix them. This is a really fun job. NOT. Unless you love unpicking tiny stitches, usually the same colour as the material, and originally stitched over and over and over. It’s especially fun when someone in the past has done a crappier job of fixing them, sewing over embedded elastic, and.. yeah.. shocker.
It’s even more fun when your eyesight for close work is starting to go. (That’d be me.)
Still, from time to time I’ve fixed a few when we’ve ended up being caretakers of the team bibs for the season. Last year I actually intended to repair a full set for the new year, but returned them to the association and told them that it wasn’t worth my time trying to unpick seven sets of bibs. It was hours of work, so better off to just buy a new set I thought.
Just before that, however, I had blithely responded to a plea in the primary school newsletter to fix some netball bibs. It was the mother guilt thing; I hadn’t been doing much at the school recently, I don’t much like committing regular time up at school, so the least I could do was fix a few bibs. I saw the sports teacher while up at school and said I’d do them.
That afternoon, Ms 10 struggled home on the bus with a plastic box full of FIVE sets of bibs! FIVE! That’s 35 bibs X 4 corners on each = 140 corners of unpicking to do! “Fruit”. I might have said. Or possibly something worse.
Needless to say, they sat in the ‘too hard’ box all over summer. Till suddenly netball season was upon us again, and the box sat there reprovingly, near the ironing board, till a week or so ago I sighed and pulled them out. Far out. What a job. I rang around, and googled online suppliers. Maybe I could just replace them. Donation to the school. Easy. Um… no, not at around $50 a set!
OK then. Look again. Two sets were easier than the others to undo, so I set to work on them. I did an unpicking blitz, taking them with me to do while Ms 10 had a tennis lesson. One set was missing a bib, which made the whole set useless, so I decided I’d go ahead and buy one set to donate.
And meanwhile I documented my whinges occasionally on Facebook and Twitter. Stuff like:
“Next time I’m tempted to offer to repair netball bibs, somebody gag me and put a bag over my head or something…”
This morning Himself notices two sets of netball bibs (with fresh elastic) sitting on the end of the ironing board. Two sets, minus the last two I had to do this morning to then at least have achieved 50% of my target. Yay! Sense of achievement looming!
I can’t imagine that I never swore or muttered about the ‘bloody school netball bibs’ before.. but he was clueless as to who they were for, and why the box had been sitting downstairs over the past week.
And he has been on Facebook in the past few days… but patently he never reads anything I write, because he then says:
So the set for the girls’ team (which he coaches) needs fixing, can you do them for tomorrow?
Some days I could cheerfully throttle him.