Greetings, all! Forgive me for leaving you alone for so long. The play is done and my time is my own again.
After a fashion.
Everything went pretty well, actually. Lines were remembered, scenery stayed in place and there were no wardrobe malfunctions. I should have worn a pedometer, because I'm fairly sure that my backstage pacing added up to several thousand miles.
Speaking of several thousand, that has to be the number of rows I've added to the preemie sweater without visible progress. Yes, I've entered the dreaded black hole of knitting. Measure, knit a dozen rows, measure.
Still the same length.
Knit another dozen rows, measure. No change.
Snarl to self, knit TWO dozen rows, measure. What the hell?!
At this point, snarling is replaced by complex and imaginitive swearing while yanking various parts of the knitted item into some sort of reasonable facsimile of the required length. According to the tape measure, you still need to add about four more rows. This is done, quickly and with ill grace. You measure again and discover that the piece, to which you added four lousy rows, is now six inches too long.
You sigh, carefully fold up your knitting, set it aside and reach for the gin.