Lady Eleanor is still fun to knit, but not as interesting as she was for the first half hour of our reacquaintance. For days now I've been itching to start some socks, a hoodie for my sister, a felted hot water bottle cover - anything, in fact, that's on my list of Things to Knit and doesn't involve buying yarn.
There are two reasons I haven't begun a new project. One is the spectre coughing softly at the edge of my guilty procrastinating conscience, and the other is the same spectre, sitting obstinately on my swift, eliminating any possibility of winding yarn. (I could of course have used the back of a chair, but I wasn't running the risk of exacerbating the spectre's cough, and thereby ruining my current listening pleasure).
I seem to remember blithely saying something like 'I think I will regret this' when I was spreading the yarn out to dry. Ha! I hadn't imagined the half of it.
If I had to choose my lowest point, it would've been this:
and while it wouldn't be strictly accurate to say that by this stage I had reached a state of Zen-like calm, I did find it helpful to repeat a little mantra as I worked: 'Thank God it's superwash, remember the Kidsilk Haze'.
Finally, at 4 pm today, I slid the ball of yarn off the baking parchment inner-tube (known affectionately as my 'bommyknocker' for obvious yarn-winding reasons), and sent it off to the yarn drawer. Not for punitive reasons, you understand, but just so it can hang out with the other yarn for a bit, and think about whether it's ready to behave yet.
Right, I'm off to wind some sock yarn. Yes, it is variegated. It's also already in my yarn drawer. I've done my time, and I'm ready to take whatever it chooses to throw at me.
Unless, of course, it chooses a ball of green yarn.