A few months ago I gave a dear little old lady friend of mine a pair of hand knit socks. The woman almost lost her mind with delight. She wears them every night when she goes to sleep.
I have to pry them out of her hands to give them a wash on a regular basis and this is a difficult task indeed because she is a typical feisty Italian woman.
When she told me that she was going to take them to the hospital for minor surgery on Monday, I just about croaked in horror.
They are not as pretty as they used to be and I don't want her telling anyone that I made them given their current condition. After all I have a reputation as a professional knitter to protect.
I anxiously tried to dissuade her to no avail.
In that moment I decided that I needed whip up a pair in a flash and swap the old for the new when I take her to the hospital on Monday morning.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. My pride reputation was in jepardy so I crossed the line and broke my self imposed yarn code - Life is too short to knit with crap, and purchased twitch, twitch, a single ball of cheap icky L.B. Wool-Ease, to solve the problem. No special care required. It was the best I could do considering the exceedingly limited resourses in Key West and they will look decent when done. Oh yes, I was a knitter on the edge.
I cast on Friday evening and finished the pair on Saturday night while watching Star Trek Voyager re-runs. (Stonewall is on a serious bender.) I intentionally skipped the Library Knit Group on Saturday afternoon least someone discover my scandalous behavior.
OMG, my 111th pair of socks is made of fake wool! I'll never live this down.
I'm still twitching and Stonewall is becoming concerned.
Would someone please pass the cashmere?