I arrived back this evening from a fabulous, indulgent weekend with fellow knitters at the inaugral Irish Knitters Retreat (more about this later, it’s deserving of a separate post) and I discovered that DH has been doing laundry. Experience has proven this is rarely a good thing.
Sure enough, in the middle of the pile of recently tumble-dried clothes was… yup, you know what’s coming next… a pair of his socks. Nicely felted and shrunk until they almost, but don’t quite, fit me.
You know, accidents happen. I understand that. It happens to the best of us. So, I cheerily presented him with the felted socks with “Oooh, you made me a pair of socks!”. All I got was “Oh, sorry”. Not “OMG, I can’t believe this has happened to my gorgeous socks, that you spent so long knitting, frogging, redesigning, and knitting again for me. This is such a tragedy… I’m just devastaed… Is there anything that can be done to save them?”
“sorry” (with a small s)
I was under the impression that the socks I was knitting were cherished. I thought he’d be devasted at the demise of a pair. I’m obviously operating, and knitting, under a delusion.
The upside is, I release myself from my committment to knit him a pair of socks a month this year. I informed him of this. He said sorry with a small “s” again. I will finish the current pair of Coriolis and give them to him. After all, he did look after my three children for the entire weekend so I could frolic with fibre. He deserves that much.
But after that, I’m officially free – the next socks I knit are for meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!