Hand me that sheep, Igor

If you spin, you’ve seen them: those braids of fibre, hand painted in glorious blobs of colour, with names like Night Carnival, Autumn Leaves, Mille Fiori. Those braids scare the pants off of me. Now, I love colour. I’m a knitter; I design in colourwork; of course I love colour. But for some reason, faced with those riotous braids, I’m stymied. What the hell would I do with them? What if, despite the dyer’s careful application of their art, I spin them up into something ugly? Something that offends the eye and sends children screaming to their mothers? Those colourful…

Horseshoes and hand grenades

Lately, I feel surrounded by the almost finished. The nearly there. The not quite. I suspect that this feeling is largely due to┬áconfirmation bias: a large event in my non-knitting life has been so close to done for weeks, and many other tasks must hang fire until this thing is over, which colours how I see everything else. It’s not as though I haven’t finished anything lately, it’s just that the unfinished things loom large, and are niggling at me like an itch I can’t quite reach. For instance: