Whose round is it?

They say pride comes before a fall. I don’t know if it’s pride that drove me to it – complacency or over-ambition seem rather more likely – but fall I did.

I’ve been knitting a cowl recently, another magic loop affair while my boyfriend’s scarf languishes idly by (not completely idly though, as it’s recently become my portable project for when I’m sitting on the train to and from work and as such is progressing nicely). It’s a slightly more advanced pattern than those I’ve completed to date, with slipped stitches, yarnovers and psso’s aplenty.  It’s also a dry run for the cowl I’d like to knit for a friend’s birthday present in the suitably indulgent Fyberspates Scrumptious DK yarn– purple for me and deep pink for her – meaning I’d quite like to get it right.

All was going well.  I’d cast on the requisite number of stitches, got to grips with the twisted rib border and even made a start on the first round of the pattern – pretty good going for only two evenings’ work.  The third evening’s work was preceded by dinner and drinks with two former colleagues, both of whom were a little late in arrival: half an hour or 1.25 cocktails, if you prefer.  As the evening progressed, wine was ordered, stories were shared and any recollection of New Years resolutions was pushed aside with the arrival of the dessert menu.  It was a lovely night and one that finished surprisingly early as we each trundled towards our respective stations at a respectable 9pm.

Arriving home to find the house empty, I allowed a small snicker of delight at the fact I could continue my cowl without fear of neglecting my boyfriend and his scarf.  Set up on the sofa, I had my wool on one side, more wine on the other and endless QI repeats on the telly courtesy of channel Dave.  And so, I knitted.  I knitted long and I knitted fast (for me, anyway) and sped through line after line of the pattern into the early hours before eventually succumbing to a Rioja-induced slumber in bed.

This morning I woke to the sound of birdsong, gentle breezes in the trees outside and a decidedly grumpy thudding in my head.  Have you ever had a morning where you can hear yourself blink?  Well… precisely.  My first thought was water.  My second thought was the cowl.  Getting through to the living room was no mean feat but once there I understood what my fuzzy subconscious had been trying to tell me: badness had happened.  In my haste the night before, I had managed to drop, add and k2tog stitches at random to the extent that there were now holes and ladders running down multiple rows.  Some sections looked flawless while others were disastrous; overall it looked less like a cowl and more like a tea cosy, assuming the teapot has between five and seven spouts of varying height and girth.

I’m ashamed to say I ripped it all, then and there.  I’m still getting to grips with remedying mistakes and in this case there were so many, my addled brain didn’t know where to start.  The yarn, while being beautifully soft, doesn’t really lend itself to ripping and so I’m still picking up tufts of purple fluff from around the sofa and the rest of the house.  But I’ve rescued most of it and I’ll make a fresh start on it again tomorrow, minus wine.  Lesson learned.

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