Oh Frabjous Day!

The Yarn Harlot is coming to England. I haven't been this excited in I don't know how long. If you heard a curious sound last week, it was the collective realisation of thousands of British knitters that one of their daydreams was going to happen. Followed by a hurried attempt to recall whether they might have made any rash promises, such as "I'd sacrifice my firstborn for a chance to see her this side of the Atlantic", promises that might now be called in. I'm fine, I don't make bargains like that. I just indulge in a rich and vivid fantasy life in which I might actually make it to North America myself, conveniently forgetting that doing so would pretty much require me to get on an aeroplane, which is one of the many things I've never done. I'm not scared of flying - well, I don't think I'm scared of flying, but never having tried it I'm reluctant to commit myself. I've just never visited anywhere that can't be reasonably reached by a train (Chris's obsession) or a boat (my obsession) or both (mutual bliss), and these days there is a certain amount of smugness to be had from never having flown. So bang goes my fantasy (don't worry, I have plenty of spares), and as a firstborn child, I'm looking over my shoulder a little nervously.

Such an occasion positively demands impressive knitting (competitive? Me?). But it's the beginning of September, and it may well be warmish (it may well not, but such is England, and most of us are used to it by now, although I heard a fifty year old complaining last summer of the horrors of having to wear a cardigan in June). It certainly won't be aran weather (the beginning of October last year was bad enough for a girl with a pure wool jumper she wanted to show off. Fortunately for everyone wool is deodorising, but I've never had to wash a sweater twice in a week before). Lace would seem the obvious solution, proper airy lace (not the Hap, which will be a wonderful comforter next winter, but which is the reverse of light). So I reviewed the laceweight (without having to fight my way into the wardrobe, thanks to the joys of Ravelry). I reviewed my lace patterns, then ordered another that I've wanted to do for a while. It hasn't quite got here yet, but I'd chosen the yarn and found the needles. Then this morning I fell over another pattern, and it was love. I spent the day trying to persuade myself not to knit it, with such little success that as soon as I'd hung up my coat I started winding cashmere. After all, what does it matter if I have another work in progress? I wasn't knitting any lace (apart from the Big Heap of Red Fuzz, which is millimetring along. It's far too slow to be inching). Looks like this September I will be wearing a cashmere scarf (or possibly carrying a cashmere scarf, should the weather be warm and the hall be crowded). It might not be the show-off project to display my technical skills that I'd thought of, and although as a very new pattern there aren't may around yet, by September I confidently predict that it will be all over the blogosphere like a rash. But it was love, and can we ever choose where the heart truly leads us?

It's time I went to bed. I know I'm too tired when I start quoting Cabaret. And before anyone comments, there may very well have been a special offer on brackets today. I'll leave you with a truly awful flash photograph of my new baby. Believe me, it looks infinitely better in real life.