Yesterday I was trouping across town on the streetcar with my knitting. There was a little blonde moppet sitting on her dad’s lap a couple of seats over and she was maybe…4? 5 years old? She turned around on his lap and looked at my knitting, then pulled on his coat and pointing at me said “Daddy! Daddy! That lady is knitting a sock!” Ahh, this must be the child of a knitter, to be able to correctly identify a sock in progress from 3 metres away? A hallmark of a wooly education. Now I know that the knitter is not the daddy, since he didn’t even turn his head to see what sort of sock I was knitting, and there’s no way that a knitter could have managed that. The knitter must be the mummy. I smiled at the little waif, and was wondering if I knew her mum, when she turned back to her dad and said…
“I wonder if that lady lives in a wool house too”.
I almost fell off the chair laughing. Who’s kid is this? Surely we know her…since she knits enough that her kid can adeptly pick out a work in progress, that her husband has seen so much wool that he doesn’t even turn his head anymore…and that they live in A WOOL HOUSE. Fess up. Which one of you is it?
I started the second of the MSF mittens this weekend.
Since this one looks exactly like the one before it I have included my cat for interest. Sadly, the cat isn’t doing anything interesting, but I have to believe that it’s better than me just showing you boring mundane pictures of the same damn mitten over and over again. I’m boring myself, so it’s got to be horrible for you.
I was pulled out of the depths of second mitten monotony by a beautiful RAOK from
These little stitch markers are very beautiful, and I laughed when I saw that they are PINK. This settles it. I’m jumping on the pink train. Thanks Colette!
Tonight I’ll continue working on the MSF mittens, though I’ve suddenly contracted a horrible tendency to fall asleep while knitting them. (I have an incredible urge to knit a bright purple stripe into them) Last night Sam came into the room where I was knitting. This room (like all the others, since I live in “a wool house” ) is full of yarn. Full. Completely overrun. There is yarn on the table, on my lap, on the bookcase, in the drawers….everywhere. Sam stepped over a pile of yarn, looked me dead in the eye, and said (with all seriousness)
“Mum, I’m trying to tie something up. Do we have anything in this house like string?”