Life can change quickly and sometimes it does. Last Saturday we farewelled Nonno for the last time, laying him gently to rest in a grassy cemetery on a day as sunny and bright as you could wish for. Only his close family and a few friends threw rose petals onto his coffin. We exchanged stories over a long lunch where a few tears were shed and much laughter was shared as we related tales of his inventiveness and more bizarre exploits. Only those who knew him well could believe, and perhaps understand, the streak of madness in his sanguine approach to a spot of impromptu restorative dentistry: fibreglass.
But life rolls on and I have been knitting, despite temperatures in the 30s and a percentage of humidity that makes me want to leap off a cliff (I hate humidity, always have; but there aren’t any nearby cliffs and it would take far too much effort to get to any). Last night I was steadily working away at Youngest Uncle’s fingerless gloves (or fingered mitts, you might see them thus described in some quarters) and admiring the evenness of my output. I’m not praising my knitting so much as the yarn, Cleckheaton’s Country Tartan. It has never failed to give me a reliable result. I will have the gloves/mitts finished for Youngest Uncle’s birthday and that will be another little achievement. I promise there will be no fibreglass involved.