Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
... the tough get rockin'
The sockapaloooza socks are done!
They're done. They've been washed, and they're now drying, ready to be posted tomorrow.
Yes, I'm two weeks late, but they're done.
Photos will be taken in daylight, before they go to their new home.
At last, dear sock, you have your sole mate.
Details
Yarn: Lorna's Laces Shepherd Sock
Colourway: Bittersweet
Amount: 1 skein (I reckon. I bought two, and started each sock from a new skein, but I've got about half left, and hte socks when weighed weigh just less than 60g, the stated weight of a skein of Shepherd Sock)
Pattern: Designed by me, soon to be published (watch this space for more info - I'm very excited by this)
Started: 11 April 2006
Finished: 16 May 2006 (two weeks late, shamefully)
I've just watched the last episode ever made of The West Wing.
For years I've followed this series, more closely than any other.
I've been more inspired, more moved, more elated, more educated by this series than by any other.
I've watched and re-watched the DVDs of this series more than any other.
Without it, I'd never have known how to say Galileo 5, the meaning of Shibboleth, how a filibuster works or that for Bourbon to be Bourbon it has to come from Kentucky. I'd also have got more sleep during the last two actual Presidential elections.
I've held this series to higher standards than any other, and felt more let down by the fallow years than I thought possible... but as with all things, to fully appreciate the good, one must experience the bad.
... but when it was good, it really was, very very good, and when it was bad, it was better than most of the dross available on the tellybox.
If you'd told me when it was first shown that I'd be hooked on a show about American politics I'd have told you that you were crazy, and yet, here I am, feeling all verklempt. It feels a bit like it got cut of at the knees just as the writers got themselves out from under the very long shadow of Aaron Sorkin and started to really get into their stride.
Damn, I'm really going to miss this show.
So, my sockapaloooza socks arrived.
I'd forgotten that I'd put my work address in when I was signing up for the swap, because at that time I didn't know where I was going to be living.
I've also moved desk recently, and emptied my trays, which were never used as in-trays previously, so I didn't notice the papers in the top tray, and didn't notice the airmail packet underneath. Well I did, obviously, but not for a good while.
When I did though, there was much excitement, and showing off of said socks. There was also a lot of admiring and stroking of the socks as they lay on my desk all day.
I was desperate to try them on, but also conscious that my feet were all stinky from being inside (store bought) socks and trainers all day.
So when I got home, I carefully washed my feet and shaved my legs until they were perfectly smooth.
Then came the moment of truth. Would they fit? Would they feel fabulous? Would they be everything I hoped?
Oh yes. Yes. Yes!
These socks are absolutely perfect. The fit is perfect. The yarn is perfect. The colourway is perfect. The pattern is fabulous. I can only hope that my sock pal likes the socks I'm making for her even half as much. That would make me happy.
Huge thanks go out to Lea, who knitted these for me, and got them absolutely spot on.
For those who haven't had enough of pictures of my feet yet, have a few more:
Scene: No 91 bus, tail end of morning rush hour. Lower deck of bus is packed, so I head upstairs in search of a seat. Get to top of stairs to see top deck of bus with no available seats, all available non-commuter occupied seats being occupied by children and their accompanying teachers, with two people standing. Arse. Prop myself against corner of top of stairs, jam elbow in gap between handrail and back of seats in front, brace feet, continue knitting.
Enter, stage downstairs: Well dressed man. Tall, dark, handsome. Longish hair tied back in smart pony tail. Looks intelligent and well mannered. WDM proceeds up aforementioned stairs, looks around, sees bus full. Looks again. Bus still full. Looks again. Bus still full. Evil death ray stare not de-materialising any of aforementioned children. Proceeds to join me on stop step, still looking round (in the manner of a meercat) for a seat and begins to push past me to make way on to top deck.
Me: "Excuse me. There are no seats available, and already two people standing, not including myself. Notwithstanding those two people being first in line for the first available seats, I am not standing at the top of the stairs, while knitting for the good of my health. Would you be so kind as to stop where you are, move down a stair or two and wait your turn for a seat? Thank you."
WDM: "Yes of course, you're right, it would be incredibly rude of me to push past you and the other two standing people and try and secure a seat faster."
In. My. Head.
What actually happened?
He pushed past, I considered tripping him up, elbowing him in the kidneys and/or stabbing him with my knitting needles and instead glared at him, tutted and hoped one of the kids pissed the seat before vacating it to him.
Which didn't actually happen either. He got a seat before I did, and I hope karma bites him good and hard.
This is the sweet and entirely asleep face of Mr Cat.
Mr Cat appeared on the terrace at the back of my house a couple of weeks after I moved in, looking very much like a cat I knew (Had a name tag which said "Noodles" and used to follow me to the end of the road in the morning when I was going to work and then wait there for me to come home and follow me back along the street to my house) when I lived on the street round the corner several years ago.
I have no idea whether Mr Cat is Noodles, or just looks like him (albeit a few years older now), but Mr Cat ran straight to me when I first saw him and went out on the terrace to say hello (I miss my cat, and any kind of cat lovin' is very much welcomed).
Since that first encounter, Mr Cat has appeared more frequently, and being more and more affectionate each time.
Sadly, since that first encounter, Mr Cat has also got thinner, slightly more scabby looking on account of having been beaten up several times and is obviously not a happy, healthy cat.
This makes me very sad, and on Saturday, I couldn't take it any more, so this is Mr Cat sleeping off some Whiskas Beef in Jelly on the end of my bed.
I think he might belong to the woman next door, but I'm not convinced that she's looking after him properly.
So for the moment, I'm going to continue to feed him once a day, and debate taking him to the clinic at Harmsworth to get him checked out, because apart from the skin irritation from overgrooming his tail area, I think he might have worms and I'm concerned about the bloody wounds he's sustained from being beaten up.
... and I'm trying (and apparently failing) not to fall in love with this very sweet, very affectionate, and very not mine cat.
I am so very pleased with this sock that I fear I may burst with pride.
Unmatched, in my eyes (or anyone else's - for there is only one, as yet), I love it beyond the telling of it (which is going to make giving it up difficult, despite obviously being in colours I would never ordinarily wear).
The trouble is, its mate is late, and sadly, that makes me a sockapalooozer.
Life, the bitch, has elbowed her way in, like a bargain hunter on the first day of the sales, and my magical plan to complete and send on time ganged very much agley.
Still, I love this sock, and hope that my sock pal will too, just as soon as I finish the other one and send them off to her.
Soon my pretty, soon you will be mated.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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