Frelling knitting
You guys. I have a life you know.* I am not going to embrace knitting to the exclusion of all else.** Although the dominance of that gene that links McKinley and knitting is beginning to frighten me. What else is on it?*** Is the world ready? Meanwhile, I think I’ve had more tweets about my latest demonstration of going to the bad than I’ve had for anything, possibly including the publication of PEGASUS. Many of them are so uplifting and supportive too. @casemama for example says: Please anticipate never resurfacing after joining Ravelry. I forget to feed my children when knitting patterns are involved. —I think I’m probably pretty safe. The hellhounds might let the occasional manifestation of neglect pass, but my bell ringers wouldn’t. And @knitronomicon says: Doomed! Doomed! Mwuahahahahahahaha!!! —So encouraging. And her user name fills me with confidence as well.
@jaimeleemoyer takes a different approach. She says: Blame Jodi. I know I do…and did. All things yarn related are her fault. —Yes. All you forum readers will have seen how she introduced last night’s blog post thread: In other words, knitters, VICTORY! —VERY FRELLING FUNNY. And the very first comment was from . . . blondviolinist: I’d try to write a cogent reply, but I’m too busy rolling on the floor laughing. (To set the record straight: I didn’t know Robin was online when I posted my whine about yarn bombing. All other accusations might be true.) —I like that might.
Black Bear writes: Casting on is dreadful. —Hmm. I don’t actually remember casting on being dreadful. I remember the going on and on and on and on and on and on afterwards being at least slightly trying.† Not that I’ve figured out casting on again this time. Yet.†† But the version on the opening page of www.knittinghelp.com looks familiar. That index-finger polka . . . I’ve seen it before. It may be the way my demon knitter friend from Maine showed me, a quarter century ago. If I get this blog post written soon enough I’ll go practise.
Fiona—Fiona!—writes: I’m still trying to work out whether I’m a bad influence on Robin, or she’s a bad influence on me…
Oh? You’re wondering? Who keeps sending me emails about concerts? I feel it is only getting a little of my own back that you left the shop with more yarn than I did. She goes on, blithely: Have you had any more thoughts about my suggestion of hellhound legwarmers?
With little strings over their backs to keep them up? No. I haven’t. No.††
Only I saw a post on Ravelry earlier today from someone who’d knitted some for her dog…..
Thank you for not sending me the link. Meanwhile, remember I told you recently that I have a pregnant friend? She emailed me this today: Let me first say: hahahahahahaha! I knew it would only be a matter of time! Secondly, if you want to practice on a smaller scale first, you could certainly try your hand at something like THIS: http://www.babylegs.com/Leg-Warmers.aspx ‡
Jodi compounds her evilness by writing: The other needles are lovely and I think you should have them too! Not that I am a horrible enabler anything.
Yes, I keep thinking about them. For Some Reason I had favourited that page—silly person—and I swear I was trying to go somewhere else and—‡‡
(At any rate, you have an entire list of people you can ask if you get stuck. Or an entire list of people to blame if you get stuck.)
I’ve already started on the blaming. You may have noticed. But yes, @rockharp suggested I view my capitulation as becoming a member of concerned and nurturing community: ENDLESS FREE KNITTING TECH SUPPORT! And @CymruLlewes has the spectacular effrontery to suggest that joining Ravelry is efficient: Ravelry is good for seeing just why you shouldn’t knit that pattern or use that yarn. It does save time.
Save . . . time? SAVE??? TIME????
* * *
* Slightly depending on your definition of life. Of course I went bell ringing tonight. It’s Monday, isn’t it? It’s usually South Desuetude on Mondays, but Colin is also responsible for Glaciation, Hampshire’s coldest frelling bell tower. Usually ringing warms you up. Usually having hands too stiff with cold to ring accurately is only a problem before the first touch. Usually after your first touch you have to take a layer off. Tonight at Glaciation after every touch Anthea and I sprinted for the electric fire while the others stood around blowing on their hands and complaining about the cold. But the electric fire is only two people wide . . . and you’d be mad trying to dislodge either Anthea or me. We’re fierce when we’re cold. And bells don’t much like being that cold either, and these are more old, plain-bearing (rather than ball-bearing) ones which means the moving parts are full of surplus WWII grease the RAF didn’t get around to using in their Spitfires. Iron is more gorblimey pliable.
And I have somehow been talked into ringing more frelling handbells tomorrow night. Somehow. Niall and I are going to go drill the glurp out of one of the beginners from last Tuesday. My problem is that Niall likes me for a partner in beginner-bashing. As I was trying to explain my awful predicament to a somewhat hostile husband^, Peter said, you’re Niall’s favourite pedagogic aid. Well, yes. The globe, the chalkboard, and the McKinley. As I keep saying, I don’t ring much^^, but by golly and crabgrass what there is of it I can ring. Barring no sleep the night before or the ME eating my brain—the two things are frequently related—this makes me ideal for beginners because I can’t be knocked off my line. And while in terms of morale this is a mixed blessing—because I know that I’m as steady as I am because it took me so dranglefabbing long to learn it at all—I also remember what it’s like being a beginner. Although Caitlin is another of these overachieving tower ringers, and as soon as she gets her head around handbells she’ll be off in a blaze of small brass dingdong glory. Sigh. Well, she won’t be ringing Cambridge by the end of tomorrow night because I can’t.
But there is another reason I will be glad to do something indoors and sitting down tomorrow. I’ve already got my dogminder booked for regular Mondays, in anticipation of voice lessons^^^, and having bagged Monday afternoons I didn’t want to upset any functioning systems. So this afternoon I went up to Third House and started moving backlist. I spent two hours carrying large heavy boxes full of books upstairs and trying to stack them both neatly and in some manner by which it will be possible to find what you are looking for, should you be so unfortunate as to need a copy of something from the McKinley or the Dickinson backlist. Why is so much of our respective backlists in large boxes. Not your standard, slightly-heavier-weight cardboard books boxes, but the next size up, the general all-purposes stuff boxes. The answer is, I think, that we used what the mover provided, six years ago, when we left the big house, and movers aren’t accustomed to people the majority of whose worldly goods are books. New packing boxes cost money, and I think I remember that if we were willing to have used ones, they were free. They were, however, what he had to give us, which is to say too low a percentage of book boxes. I can handle a proper book box full of books. These big things . . . gaaaah. I’m not too bad tonight, but getting out of bed tomorrow morning. . . .
^ About an hour later he said in his mildest, most British tone, Please reintroduce to Niall’s attention the possibility of rebellion in the non-ringing spouse. —Oops. Niall and I had been discussing just this on the drive home tonight, because he’s sustaining a certain amount of strife and restiveness from Penelope. I thought I was going to get away with it this time because our regular handbells on Thursday are early so I’ll be back down to the mews at what passes in my case for normal supper time.
^^ I was saying gloomily to the demon in the driver’s seat tonight, I keep remembering that the plain bob methods—so the one method I do know on handbells (bob minor) and the one method I’m learning (bob major)—are more educational tools rather than methods rung for their own sake. Nobody rings any of the plain bobs for the music: they ring them because they can. Because they’re extremely teachable. And as handbells go, learnable.
^^^ We’re now waiting for a kitchen refit, and the builders to go away. Working at home has serious drawbacks.
** Even in my wildest agonies of despair I do not dream of forsaking story-telling. Even PEG II, which is seeing just how far it can push me.
*** Besides chocolate. Creative cursing? Accident-proneness?
† It also developed a kind of list to one side. As well as curly edges.
†† I’m trying to convince Fiona she has to come again really soon.
††† Dog froufrou is so limited. I think that self-striping yarn would be fabulous. Red, gold and maroon for Chaos . . . blue, green and teal for Darkness. Perhaps. Darkness would also look good in red. And Chaos would look terrific in rust and burnt orange . . .
‡ And yes, too frelling cute or what. So get pregnant again in a couple of years or something when maybe I’ve figured out casting on. And knitting something that doesn’t list and curl.
‡‡ No, I HAVEN’T ordered them yet. But speaking of things that are only a matter of time. Uh. I wonder what size . . .
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