So, I'm sitting on the couch, knitting away on this glove, and I get to the end of a row. Good time to get up and grab a nice cold drink to knit with, right? I set down the knitting. ClinkGulpAargh.
Do you know what that sound is? The clink is the sound of my loose DPN falling down the crack in the couch. The gulp is the sound of the couch eating it. The aargh is me.
Instead of embarking on a quest for chilled beverage, I am now on a quest to rescue the DPN (I'll call her Alice) from the jaws of death.
(Here is a picture of Alice in her prime. Isn't she lovely? So shiny and unsullied save for a few scuff marks. Sigh.)
You can imagine the rest. First I try the fishing-down-the -crack-in-the-couch method, which never works. Then I try the fishing-under-the-couch method, which also never works but always turns up one pencil, one pen, one chapstick, one quarter, and enough lint to knit a beanie with.
Finally, desperate, I enlist the help of my little brother, who, struck to the heart at my tale of Alice's peril, manfully hoists the nefarious couch off the ground and shakes it (not nearly violently enough, in my opinion) until, tink, Alice tumbles free. The couch, deprived of its evening meal, grumbles something unrepeatable as he lowers it back to the carpet.
I clasp Alice to my bosom and vow never, ever again to knit on an item of furniture with orifices big enough to admit Chihuahuas, but all my good intentions, I'm afraid, are too late to do my darling Alice any good. She is a changed creature.
TWiP: Fewer Words
1 day ago