string theory
Bleah. One of those days. All 'fluey, and had annoying interview with nice man from the academics' association, who doesn't think much of my chances of extracting an actual post from my Cherished Institution. Apparently Things May Change next year with defining temporary posts, if I'd only just held on for just one more year. To which I say "Phooey." End of tether. Out of rope. Bridges burned. Metaphors mixed.
So, I have achieved several balls of wool in an attractively sludgy shade of green-grey, plus nice fat needles. By experimentally placing the needles and wool together in various configurations, I have remembered that I actually know how to cast on. Have cast on, knitted several rows, realised they're too tight, undone them, redone them, realised there are holes all over the show, pulled the whole thing undone, re-cast on, knitted several rows. The activity currently seems to be some kind of mobius strip. No amount of consultation of the nifty little pictures in wolverine_nun's useful book has permitted me to purl. These diagrams make no sense: they describe motions outside the normal physical universe, anti-motions. Actually recreating them will undoubtedly warp the space-time continuum, and I think the space-time continuum works rather well the way it is.
Alternatively, I shall make a further attempt at purling when I'm not quite so blasted on 'flu meds. I am, however, quite enjoying the actual knitting. It's very zen. Apart from the bits where I drop stitches, and swear.
Last Night I Dreamed: I was a member of an embattled royal family, holed up in our country mansion in the middle of a range of granite kopjes, frantically preparing for the onslaughts of the rising peasant masses. Discussions included angles of fire, setting up lookout posts, and who best to conceal in the priest's hole in the fireplace or the false floor of the gazebo out by the tennis courts. The Queen, a somewhat tremendous lady, was being suitably take-charge, particularly during those bits of the dream when I was actually her.
So, I have achieved several balls of wool in an attractively sludgy shade of green-grey, plus nice fat needles. By experimentally placing the needles and wool together in various configurations, I have remembered that I actually know how to cast on. Have cast on, knitted several rows, realised they're too tight, undone them, redone them, realised there are holes all over the show, pulled the whole thing undone, re-cast on, knitted several rows. The activity currently seems to be some kind of mobius strip. No amount of consultation of the nifty little pictures in wolverine_nun's useful book has permitted me to purl. These diagrams make no sense: they describe motions outside the normal physical universe, anti-motions. Actually recreating them will undoubtedly warp the space-time continuum, and I think the space-time continuum works rather well the way it is.
Alternatively, I shall make a further attempt at purling when I'm not quite so blasted on 'flu meds. I am, however, quite enjoying the actual knitting. It's very zen. Apart from the bits where I drop stitches, and swear.
Last Night I Dreamed: I was a member of an embattled royal family, holed up in our country mansion in the middle of a range of granite kopjes, frantically preparing for the onslaughts of the rising peasant masses. Discussions included angles of fire, setting up lookout posts, and who best to conceal in the priest's hole in the fireplace or the false floor of the gazebo out by the tennis courts. The Queen, a somewhat tremendous lady, was being suitably take-charge, particularly during those bits of the dream when I was actually her.