My beautiful yellow hat! It is beautiful, if I can blow my own trumpet. It is also unravelling fast. No knitting pun intended. I dropped a stitch on my third last row. The problem with this is that I can’t pick up stitches. A fatal flaw in a knitter.
My mother did try and teach me how. I was listening too, I’m sure of it. The problem is that when I drop a stitch, I start to panic. Pickitup, pickitup, pickitup! I get more and more panicky because I can’t think straight enough to pick the damned thing up and as that happens, stitches unravel quicker and quicker, further and further into the work. It is usually quite a Shakespearean tragedy by the end. I become the Lady Macbeth of the craft world, all my machinations (re: fuzzy hats) falling down around my ears.
I am currently in mourning for my yellow hat. I have managed to stop the unravelling and am currently debating about whether to completely undo it and start again or LEARN TO PICK UP STITCHES. Luckily I am staying with an Aunty at the moment who has said she will take a look at it.
Time to revise my list about what I will miss from Mumbai: Aunties who fix (hopefully) bad knitting mistakes.
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