And Boring. Boring, boring, boring. This week has had few charms, my pets, and worst of it is the horrible monotony of being sick. I do feel better today (much, actually) and tomorrow there’s things I have to do, but in the interest of being as well as possible for that, I decided to take another indeterminately long day of rest.
That’s another day of tea. Another day of audiobooks. Another day of this insanely boring green thing that I swear I am about to bite into a thousand bits and swallow.
See that? See how it looks completely the same? I’m onto a whole other chart, my friends, and you cannot stinking tell. It looks just the same. Another row of 300+ tiny little stitches that just sit there smugly getting no bigger, while the ball of yarn gets no smaller, and I am just about ready to snap. Now, to be clear, this is not the fault of the pattern (which I suppose I still love) or the yarn (which I can’t really tell about right now) and more to do with what was a grievous error on my part. You cannot mix a boring work in progress (no matter how lovely the result will be) with days of tedium and monotony. I started this shawl on the way to Costa Rica. I knit it by volcanoes (!) by rivers (!) while nice people brought me champagne by a pool (!) It was brilliant then, didn’t seem at all boring, but now? Now, on day four on the chesterfield, this is just…
Look. I don’t want to use foul language here. It’s unbecoming a knitter, but I did want to explain why there’s every possibility that when you come back here again – that shawl may no longer be with us.