Well, here we are, Septmber 3. No blog tomorrow, due to catarat operation and staying overnight in hospital. I hope to be back in position on Monday.
Today's pictures are from the Games, at last. My prize-winning tammy on the bench with the competition -- three hats which I couldn't make, and would like to be able to. Those people are my husband and his sister, lost in admiration. You can also see something of the "Best Use of 100 grams of wool" class -- the winner was a plain, serviceable baby jacket. I should have put in a pair of toe-up socks after all. Toe-up, so as to be able to use exactly 100 grams.
I finished repeat #66 of the Princess Shawl edging. I think I'll put in another lifeline when I've done 70. The last time I tried to count repeats, I found it very hard, but obviously I can't just trust to the Peg-It board to tell me when I've done 85. I have a lifeline at (what I think is) 50. That should help.
I got the Wallaby pouch fused to the body. It looks OK. Now I'm nearly to the armpits.
I didn't get the Baby Surprise cast on, for hospital knitting, but I don't have to be there until 2:30 and don't plan on accomplishing anything this morning, so there should still be time. Maddeningly, I can't find The Hitchhiker's Guide, which I had planned to take with me to read. Do have a look at Pam's comment from yesterday, for a very interesting idea about finishing a Surprise. Thank you, Pam.
Janis at www.defi-knitly.com shews a beautiful Koigu feather-and-fan scarf, looking, as she rightly says, very Missoni-esque.
Since I now know that chilled white wine will not be on offer, I plan to take a bottle of Henry Weston's Vintage Special Cider Reserve along with me today, and a bottle-opener. If things unfold as they did before, the afternoon's programme will begin with a brief session with Dr Dhillon, both of us dressed like normal human beings and walking on our own feet. He will recapitulate the dangers of the operation, previously explained in detail; I will sign the consent form. At that point I can ask whether, if all goes well, it would be all right with him and with the hospital, for me to drink the cider with my supper. Maybe he will suggest giving it to a nurse to chill.
Then when we next meet, an hour or so later, he will be dressed as a surgeon and I will be a patient anaesthetised upon a table, in T.S. Eliot's phrase.