Frogging is not Fun.

Last night a balloon appeared on the other side of our street, so I nipped out to get a photo.

Isn’t that pretty? Blue skies. Balloons, floating about untethered. Possibilities. Freedom. Do you know where that kind of thinking gets you when you have PMT and you don’t keep an eye on yourself properly?

It gets you digging out the third of a blanket that’s been sitting in your cupboard for AT LEAST SEVEN YEARS and which can never be finished because a/ it would cost a fortune to buy enough wool and b/ when you knitted it you were wet behind the ears and you didn’t realise it wasn’t a good idea to mix wool and acrylic in the same project. (If I ever washed that thing half of it would felt solid and the other half would be indestructible.) Also c/ because if it was ever finished it would weigh so much that anyone attempting to use it would be crushed under its weight, and that would be a really embarrassing way to die, and would possibly be reported in the Sunday Sport.

You begin to unravel it. You get a knot (this was not the worst of it. This was at the point where I had stopped swearing for long enough to pick up the camera.)

Your partner wanders past and says helpfully, gosh that’s not a good idea for you to be doing is it Susie, because you have no patience at all, and then refers to Gordian knots because he is a Medieval Latinist. You contemplate leaving him. Then he will be sorry.

You assemble a motley collection of balls of wool and are not sure you have enough of anything to actually knit/ crochet anything sensible. You contemplate the impossibility of separating pure wool aran and mohair which were knitted together. You feel despair. You decide you will sleep on it and assess the results at a later date (but not SEVEN YEARS later.)

I think I shall go and watch the telly now, quietly. If anyone has any ideas of what I could do with about 150m of Debbie Bliss cashmerino chunky do feel free to let me know. :-(