Well, this may be the shortest knitalong on record. I have completed my Fuzzy Feet, without having much interaction with my fellow footalongers or even seeing their pictures. I may have to make another pair.
Here is the unfelted first Fuzzy Foot, sitting on my nightstand so that there are objects to compare its size to. It was only after I uploaded that I considered that this picture contains both an enormous cup and a tiny pen.
A couple of notes on felting KnitPicks Wool of the Andes: it felts very fast compared with other yarns I have used — I barely caught these before they became teeny tiny elf shoes. And they are very smelly when wet. Rather like having the actual sheep in the room with you.
If I do make another pair, I think I will make the cuff longer.
I completed the Fuzzy Feet last night while simultaneously being beaten at chess and watching The Screaming Skull, a horror movie which offered free burial to any patrons who died of fright while watching it. I don’t like actual scary movies, but ancient ones like this are fun. This film contains a woman who roams around in a diaphanous nightgown, investigating scary noises. While I have often seen and read parodies of this scenario, I had never previously seen it presented seriously. You have to wonder why she didn’t just lock the door and stay in her room.
She also spent a good bit of camera time in her underwear. I understand that in those days they had to work the gratuitous nudity in anywhere they could. They figured that, had they gone directly from underwear to diaphonous nightgown, they would have only a few seconds of flesh. So they had to come up with a device to keep her in her undies a little longer. Here it is: she was reading a novel by Henry James and had it on her bedside table. So, having removed her clothing, she picks up the novel and nuzzles it a bit. I don’t think she actually read it or anything.
Can you imagine the planning meeting on that?
“How can we keep her in her undies a little longer?”
“Well, she could read that book. Or at least pick it up.”
“In her bra and slip? While getting ready to go to bed, only to be pursued by a screaming skull?”
“Hey, it’s Henry James!”
“Well, that’s true. Okay.”
At 6:30, I should be singing “Dona Nobis Pacem” at the university, having brought the cookies.
From 4:00 until 7:00, I will be reading spooky stories to little children in this vaguely Renaissance get-up. I don’t think you can actually see this costume at all in my picture. White muslin, ribbons, black velvet, dark blue tartan taffeta, McCall’s pattern… Doesn’t matter. The essential point will have struck you: namely, the two scheduled events overlap significantly. I can’t even dash directly over at 7:00, because I will be in costume. I have to go from the East side of town home to change clothes, and then over to the college on the West side of town. With cookies.
No solution to this quandary has yet occurred to me, though I am kind of thinking about taking the cookies over this morning before work.