My secret life as a hooker

I can just imagine your face when you read that title. Going like “ What? Omg. Cora? A hooker?” Indeed I am. But you will now be just so incredibly disappointed. Because according to Wiktionary, a “hooker” is someone who does crochet. Don’t believe me? Check it out here: https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/hooker

So yeah. I am a hooker. And let me tell you I hook an awful lot. And today I am going to bore you with it. I will also share a few wisdoms of one of my swimming friends and I will share with you the tale of George’s and my trip to the North. Gosh every time I’m in a car going north in the UK and I see those signs simply saying “The North” I just can’t. I really can’t. Also, I’ve never seen any signs pointing eastwards or westwards. Not really fair, is it?

Here comes statement nr one by a person who will remain anonymous:

“Do the greeks still use those signs they used millions of years ago?”

No comment.

I know you are jealous.

I don’t know if crochet existed all those millions of years ago and I am equally unaware of whether the ancient greeks practiced this magnificent craft but let me tell you: It is so addictive. Sometimes I get up at 7 a.m. and crochet. And I just can’t stop until it’s time to go to work at 8:45. I have to set myself time limits, like, “ only another 5 minutes” or “until 22:30”. If I didn’t do that I swear I would stop functioning and would just crochet until exhaustion. And I believe I’m not alone. My boyfriend knows that feeling when you simply cannot stop crocheting. In fact, if you could see into his bedroom you would sometimes see us poor souls sitting in bed, crocheting, unable to go to sleep. So far he’s made a scarf, tie and bowtie and I’ve made a scarf and am working on a very complex doily. I should probably stop now because you will stop reading. I should probably also start attending the meetings of “hookers anonymous”. Lol I have just googled that on my work laptop. It’s all a downward spiral, really.

Here comes statement nr two by the same anonymous person: (The person is over 20 years old by the way)

“Fairies aren’t real, are they?”

Bliss

Hello my friend.

What does one reply to that? While I am quite sure fairies are not real, this weekend it definitely felt like magic is. Stop reading now if you hate romance. So my man and I drove some 200 miles up north (so many “The North” signs I just couldn’t) to Mickleton where his parents live. And let me tell you it was beyond beautiful. Both mornings I went running along the fields. Passing one day green hills as far as the eye can reach and the next day seeing them transformed into a soft white carpet. (A bit less soft when I slipped and landed with my bottom on some lovely ice. Argh) Passing dozens of clueless sheep that turn their heads when you run past, stare at you for 5 seconds, until their attention span is over and they go back to their business. I also discovered my deep love for hens. After meals we would feed them leftover carbs. #Alzheimer’s. And in the morning we would collect fresh eggs for our breakfast. Oh and the bacon – something else. Everything tastes better in places you love. Honestly though, when I have a garden (e.g. when I, as most of my friends, finally make the sound decision of leaving academia and making some $$$ I will have hens in my garden. They are my friends) On the Sunday we went for a long walk in the snow. And I remembered my high school philosophy classes (my worst subject, sadly, but one I remember most stuff from actually!) about Hegel, who postulated that, when two people are in love, they create something that is larger than just the sum of the two individuals. This weekend this theoretical statement felt very much real. Funnily enough, as we discussed immigration politics and morality, those same classes came in handy again, as I was considering the existence of universal morality and asked George: “Do you know Kant”. And he goes: ”How rude!?”. Pronounce the philosopher’s name in German. Compare to very rude English word starting with c. #Hexalingualproblems. Indeed, this weekend I also introduced George to my biggest lingual enemy: Paninis. THERE ARE NO PANINIS. PANINI IS THE PLURAL. The singular form is panino. Repeat after me. Panino. Panino. Panino.

After these linguistic insights I will finish with a historical/political statement by the anonymous person featured earlier:

“Didn’t the Queen kill Lady Diana?”

It’s 22:30. I will crochet until 23:00 and then sleep.

And again, we can apply Hegel. My crochet hook and I, together we create something that is bigger than the sum of hook and yarn. Ah yes, I love being a hooker.