The Mytob virus is back in my inbox with a vengence, after a distinct period of relief. The offending computer must have taken a long weekend off. They're each quite large files, slow to download.
I'm so nearly fininished with the Wallaby that I might as well postpone the next picture until tomorrow, when I may well be utterly finished. I should have time to allow myself a few more rows of Princess Shawl, and still be able to make enough of a start on the next First Holy Communion veil that I'll have something to show James when he comes for my husband's 80th birthday on 19 November.
Thanks to everybody for their help. I gather I'm the last person in the world to join the bandwagon -- or even to notice it going by. This sounds fun. And potentially more productive than buying more yarn.
One of the Yahoo groups I not only belong to but actually read is blogger_user_support, although not often with much profit. Who should turn up this morning, once the Mytobs were out of the way, but Hazel Roots, wanting help with the curlywhirlies team blog? Kismet, yet again.
I hope the Waleses do well in America.
A great English football player from the 60's, George Best, is near death in a hospital somewhere, essentially from alcoholism. Think Joe DiMaggio, perhaps. This man was good. (I hate soccer and am bored by it.) There was an anecdote in a Sunday paper yesterday, apparently a story that Best himself liked to tell. It's about the saddest thing I ever heard:
"...concerns the time that he won a bundle of cash in a casino. He chucked the dosh on his bed in the Savoy, ordered champagne and waited for Miss UK to finish getting undressed in the bathroom. When the waiter came in with the booze, he was confronted by a bed covered in pound notes and by Miss UK in all her glory coming naked out of the bathroom. His comment was, 'Forgive me for asking, Mr Best, but where did it all go wrong?'"