I smiled and said something about there being plenty of time on the bus and waiting for appointments. All knitters know that squeezing in the odd round here and there can really add up (and keeps us from killing stupid people. Knitting really takes the edge off the desire to commit murder).
I got thinking about that this afternoon, because here it is, 6 pm on Sunday, and I'm still in my pajamas. I have a to-do list as long as my arm, and I've done nothing all weekend but knit. And cook a little. A girl has to eat something to soak up the wine.
I can't help it. I am utterly captivated by the purple, yellow, green and turquoise in this hand-dyed skein (which sounds like it should be clown-barf, but it's not). The feel of the silk sliding through my fingers and along the needle is music to my hands.
The pattern is so random and clever, and I say to myself "just one more row" because I'm desperate to find out what happens next. It's better than any gripping novel.
So, yeah. That half-shawl pictured above (and believe me, the colours are way, way nicer in real life) is why:
- the kitchen cupboards have not been defuzzified
- the laundry is not done
- my hair is lank and greasy
- the new batch of wine has not been started
- there is still (STILL!) wallpaper to be stripped in the study
All that aside, sometimes knitting does take forever. These socks took nearly two months. Same yardage as the shawl I'm now making, but navy blue ribbing with one boring little cable, man-sized in hard-wearing yarn just isn't as awe-inspiring. Glad these are done.