This post was originally titled Learning to Swear: A Step-by-step Guide, and contained a lengthy diatribe about the evils of running out of yarn just three rounds from the Promised Land. It was also an ode to Sharnette, a queen among women, who was willing to come to my rescue and send me another ball from her stash. Then I went to put the kettle on for another cup of coffee (because I wasn’t angry and twitchy enough), and on the way back I decided to have a quick dig through stash or something appropriate for angry knitting. You know, the kind of knitting where you stab the needle through the stitch, and fling the yarn around the needle, all the while muttering under your breath about the perfidy of [insert grievance here].
Oh, don’t you tell me you’ve never knit mad. I know you have.
Anyhoo, I stopped by the stash box for a dig, and there, under the bag of Elann Den-M-Knit, was a single lonely ball of Lara that had evidently made some sort of desperate dash for freedom (fat chance – once it was out of the bag, there was still the impenetrable fortress of a locked camphor-wood box to negotiate. No prisoner has ever escaped from Stalag 13!).
Don’t I feel like an idiot?
Now I must go knit like lightning, to finish those three rounds and cast off, so I can get it blocked for tomorrow.
Edited to add: Tech Support Hubby insists I dob myself in. Yesterday’s shopping trip was a resounding success; I got shoes, and clothes, but I paid cash money for two pairs of machine-made anklet socks. Please don’t hate me – the pants I bought are capri-length, and I like anklets with capris, and I only have two pairs at the moment. I have every intention of knitting several more pairs, but if I’m going to have enough socks for work this week, I needed to buy a couple of pairs.