[Keri Brenning's story, and the last of our honourable mentions.]

The first weak rays of light streaked the sky and were greeted by the call to prayer. Sunrise was still an hour or so away and it seemed Scheherazade would survive to see the sun trek across the sky once more. She had performed for her husband well enough that she would be spared the fate of the countless women before her. She would not join the corpses of the broken queens, not yet.

Light and shadows creeping through the sandalwood shutters played with one another in the empty corridors. The scent of fine incense hung gently in the warm air. The soft padding of her silk slippers on the marble floor was the only noise to disturb the silence of her journey. The finery that surrounded her should have brought her joy, but it only served to accentuate the pain and fear she lived in, the pain she had lived in since her wedding day. No, that was not true, it was before that. It was a pain she had lived in since the king had slain his first wife. The queen's betrayal shattered the king and set into motion the slaughter of hundreds of innocents. None dared to speak openly about it, but still everyone knew that one summer day, the king discovered his wife and her lover lying together and executed them both, savagely, with his own hand. That very day he married again and when dawn broke the next morning, his new bride too was slain. The king decreed that he would marry a new queen every day and have her slain on the following dawn. It may have been the queen's betrayal that shattered the king, but it was the king's betrayal that shattered his country, and Scheherazade could not sit idly by and watch her land be torn to shreds.

She begged and pleaded with her father to let her help, to give her the chance to end the king's madness, to stem the tide of blood. As the king's vizier he was responsible for finding new wives and had the power to grant her request, but he could not sentence his own daughter to death. Time passed, as is inevitable, and soon there were no more women to marry the king. Scheherazade's father had no choice. He tried once more to dissuade her, telling her he could have her smuggled out of the country, but she knew she must wed the king. She could not shut out the cries of those innocents that were slain. She was bound to her duty, and could blame no one for her fate.

The king and Scheherazade were married, and her father feared that her wedding would be the last time he would see his daughter alive. He did not know that she had a plan. On her wedding night when she entered the kings quarters, she begged him one last request, "Please your majesty, may I tell my younger sister, Dunyazade a story one last time?"

The tale she had chosen specifically because it was exciting and lengthy. As light streaked the sky, it became clear that she would not be able to finish and her husband granted her one more day. That was a thousand nights ago.
She arrived in her private quarters, her sanctuary. Picking up the worn bone needles that had once been her mother's, she set to work, falling into the trance that the elaborate lattice provided. Her world contracted into a single burning point of warmth and comfort, focused solely on the gentle click of her needles and the barest whisper of the thread as she effortlessly slid it forward across the needles, always forward; the past did not bare thinking about. She lay down stitch after stitch, occasionally performing the quick deft movements required to decrease a stitch and just as simply add a new one. Quick movements that created the seemingly fragile lacework of the scarf.

She paused for a moment in her knitting and noticed that on the floor, no more than five feet away, sat her sister. She had not even heard her enter. Scheherazade knew that the soft swish of the thread as it left her needles did not reach Dunyazade's ears over the hum of her spindle. To watch her sister work, to see the raw piles black cotton sail away into a single strong fine thread, soothed her, just as her own work soothed her. Dunyazade's creation was finest cotton thread she had ever known.

The cotton was black at Scheherazade's command. "Black cotton," She had said, "Black as the final night they lived through, Black as the fear that now plagues our land, black as the despair of our people." The scarf she knit in their honor, in their memory. It was also knit for her. Every night she would go to her husband's quarters and tell Dunyazade and her three children their tale, and every dawn she would offer her prayers of thanks and add another row to her scarf, another day to her life, while Dunyazade spun her another length of thread. The thread was never broken. Using the tail of Scheherazade's thread as the leader for her next length Dunyazade would continue. "Just as you spin your tales, as you knit our king and our land together again, so I shall spin you the thread to do it with," Dunyazade had vowed.

The scarf would not end until end of the killing. On her wedding day Scheherazade had ordered the raw cotton brought to her, and then she had asked her sister to spin it for her. "Spin a length for me , but do not cut the thread, it must remain united." Dunyazade did as she was asked. That first evening of her married life, at dusk, Scheherazade took the length of cotton and cast on. When dawn broke and she was granted her life for one more day, she had Dunyazade spin another length and she knit a single row, to represent her life, to represent her story. She had no time to knit other things through out the days, tending to her queenly duties or scouring books for stories that were just right, just enough to save her life, but that scarf was always on her needles. No part of the scarf was ever torn out, it was always growing, but only a single row every dawn.

And now it held one thousand rows. One thousand rows for one thousand nights, and to Scheherazade that number seemed to hold a great importance. As darkness fell on her one thousand and first night, Scheherazade readied herself to meet her husband. Dunyazade entered her room as she had every evening for one thousand nights, the children in tow, excited for their ritual story. Scheherazade smiled and crossed the room to kiss her sister. "Dunya," she said, " return my sons to their room and retire yourself. You will not go with me this night. I go alone."

Panic and a fierce anger rose in Dunyazade's eyes. She gripped her sister's arm, shaking her in her anger.

"Scheherazade, no! I will not allow you to go to your death alone! I will not!"

Scheherazade pulled herself free and hissed at her, "Keep your voice down! I am not a performing monkey Dunyazade! I do not dance each night for a few scraps of food! I fight for my life each and every night, and this man who I have born three sons for, who I have learned to love through all his sins, still demands this of me, still refuses to simply let me be…and it is time. It must stop now. One way or another, it must stop."

"And have you not thought of us Scheherazade? What will become of the rest of us if you are wrong? What of your sons?"

" Who are you to suggest that I have not? How can you dare to involve my sons? I have lived nearly three years with this weight on me Dunyazade…"

The wail of Scheherazade's youngest son pierced through their anger and they broke apart and turned to the children. All three of them were crying. Scheherazade turned to her sons and kissed and soothed and tickled them until it was as if the outburst had never happened.

"A story now mama, a story!" her oldest son demanded. She smiled slightly, " No my love, not tonight. Tonight I go to see your father alone."

"But mama…" he whined. "I will hear none of it," she said firmly, "Listen to your Aunt Dunya and to bed with you now my sons." She bent down to kiss and hug each one, as if it were her last time. "I love you." She turned to her sister. "Do not argue Dunya, please. You know I cannot go on like this. Take care of my sons. If…if I do not see you in the morning, tell our father I love him." Dunyazade looked as if she were about to argue again, but stopped. She nodded with tears streaming down her face and turned to usher her nephews out.

Scheherazade walked once again down the empty corridors and came to the bedchamber in which she had never slept, the kings bedchamber. She braced herself and strode into the middle of the expansive room. As the chants of prayer rang through the palace, dusk fell and the king entered. A look of mild surprise registered on his face when he saw that she was not in her usual place on the bed, the children arrayed around her. Scheherazade did not move, but met his eyes without hesitation. "Where are my sons?" he asked her. "I have sent them to bed my husband. I have no tales to offer them this night. I have nothing to offer but myself." His face remained impassive. She continued, "I have given you three strong sons. I have given you my loyalty. I have given you my love despite the things that you have done. I have given you a thousand nights of tales," she took a breath to steady herself, and came to her point. "I cannot help but wonder, husband, will that be enough?" her voice did not tremble, but a single tear slid down her cheek. He reached out a hand to cup her face. She met his eyes and saw his soul, stripped bare, and all his pain laid out. "Yes," he said, his voice cracking, "yes, it will be enough."

The morning dawned bright and clear. Scheherazade made her traditional journey through the halls, but this morning the emptiness held only peace, not foreboding. She reached her private chambers and found Dunyazade waiting for her there. She flew into Scheherazade's arms and they wept and laughed together for a long time. Finally, Dunyazade lifted her head from her sister's shoulder. "I have a gift for you," she said, and, arm around Scheherazade's waist, she lead her across the room to the finished final length of yarn. Scheherazade bent down and carefully picked up her needles. She toyed with the needles listlessly for a moment. She could not bring herself to bind the end of the scarf.

"It seems too final," she said. Then inspiration dawned on her. Dunyazade gazed on, confused and intrigued. She heard Scheherazade muttering, but could make little sense of it "…a twist … his change of heart …." Her pace quickened, and suddenly it was finished. Instead of two separate and final ends, the scarf was one continuous length, a circle, symbolizing the strength and unity that love creates and the endless possibilities of life.

Posted by Robynn at 05:43 PM | Permalink

[An honourable mention from Julie Blosser, who writes:
"I've always loved the story of the Thousand and One Nights, and I think Scheherazade must have been an incredible and well-educated woman. I love the idea that she would have a wide variety of skills, including knitting, story-telling, and smattering of practical magic. I also love magic carpets. Think of what a compendium of wonderful things they are — a useful home furnishing, a means of transportation, a work of art, and an enchantment. The Phoenix and the Carpet by Edith Nesbit was part of my inspiration for this carpet."

Julie submitted a lovely illustration, which for some reason MT is not displaying properly, and alas I'm not geeky enough to figure out why. Sorry. By the way, who else here is an E Nesbit fan? Wonderful stuff!]

It came to pass that Scheherazade, weary from telling tales to the king, sent for her sister to bring wool, silks, and needles from her father's home to while away the hours of the night. And when her sister had come, Scheherazade touched the skeins and saw in her mind's eye what they would become — a carpet, not a carpet to cushion her dainty feet on the king's marble floors, but something rarer, requiring greater skill.

Night upon night she worked with the deep blue wool her young sister wound in balls for her, the king nearly as mesmerized by the thread in her fingers as by the thread of her tale. The rosewood needles clicked and clacked gently with the rise and fall of her voice. She worked steadily on, knitting each stitch together with the magic of
her story.

As the nights wore on, the carpet grew. It grew to cover Scheherazade's lap, then spilled across the shining floor. At last it spanned the distance between her own silken cushion and the bed where the king reclined. It was enough. But as she looked at his face, she hesitated. Filled with danger as her life in the palace was, she was not yet ready to give it up.

So she cast on again and knit broad bands in the glass-green of Sinbad's sea, stranded with gold of burning sands and magicians' hoards. Slender ribbons of blood-crimson she worked as she told a tale of sisters turned to hounds,
forced to endure beatings before their curse was broken. Silver-white of moonlight and tinkling fountains swirled with velvety purple shadows where where thieves and lovers hid.

At last came the night Scheherazade had dreaded for a thousand nights. The king sent her away well before dawn. She saw him rise to pace his chamber as she left, and feared the worst. On coming to her own apartment she sent her sister back to their father's house, and dismissed her attendants. Then she cut shimmering silk and knotted it into a shining fringe at each end of her carpet. After she tied the last knot and straightened the last thread, she knelt upon the carpet, tears quivering in her eyes. If her tales had failed, if she could no longer save the maidens of her beloved country, at least she would not stay here to die.

Laying her hands on the soft fibers, she commanded the carpet to carry her away to the place she would be happiest in all the world.

A breeze began to blow through the open window, billowing the curtains and weaving its tendrils into Scheherazade's cinder-black hair. The breeze grew to a wind, and the wind grew to a gale as the carpet rose
from the floor and floated out into the night. She looked down on the palace gardens as the carpet hovered for a moment, then shot out over the city. The carpet flew swiftly over tiled domes and gold-capped minarets, past the humbler dwellings of the common denizens of the city, and at last over the city wall. It flashed past desert sands, wide seas, snow-frosted mountains, and forests primeval until it was moving so fast Scheherazade could only grip the silken fringes, close her eyes, and hope it would stop. Then, suddenly, without a heave or a lurch, she realized she had stopped, and only a faint breeze brushed her skin. She smelled jasmine in the air. Stepping off the carpet, she opened her eyes and found herself in her own garden. The carpet slipped away into the palace as Scheherazade saw the king approach her with a smile and hands outstretched. His terrible order had been rescinded. Taking the hands of her beloved, her husband, she searched her heart and found a deep well of happiness there, now unclouded by fear.

Was this love only what had been there all along, or did the magic of all the happy endings Scheherazade had knit into her carpet make her wish come true? Scheherazade never knew, and the carpet kept its own counsel. The only sign it gave was three gold stars that appeared in the blue.

Posted by Robynn at 05:15 PM | Permalink

I've heard that old "learn to walk before you run" idea, but I do not hold with it. I'm all about diving in the deep end. However, considering my first ever sock* is only an inch long at this point, I do think I might be getting a little carried away. I seem to have already ticked the box marked "sock knitter" in my head and am so behaving as sock knitters apparently do, viz, stashing like crazy.

Because it's just so tempting, isn't it? All those gorgeous, colourful yarns; and you only need a skein or two. That's probably what has, till now, kept me from bankruptcy; I make sweaters (almost always), and I'm not so tiny, and I don't like to run out, so I tend to get antsy with buying anything less than 12 balls for a project, even if I don't have an actual pattern in mind. (By the time I've carried the bag home, I have a plan, but not necessarily at the actual moment of purchase.) And it's easier to say "no" if you have to think hard about what exactly you're going to do with all that yarn, and whether it's really worth 12 times the price per ball, and whether you shouldn't first go home and have a good hard look at your stash and project list and maybe come up with a design first so you actually know what you need, and then go back for the yarn, which obviously hardly ever happens.

But the prospect of socks, well, that opens up all sorts of new possibilities. (I'm also very much enjoying the idea of trying out squillions of pretty stitch patterns, without having to design a whole garment.) So, acting as if I've already completed at least one successful and fun-to-knit pair, I might have had a little encounter with Wollmeise. And it's possible that I've begged Kirsty to send me the wherewithal for a pair of Secret Stockings** the second her shop is back up. And I'm casting an exceptionally longing eye over at Posh this week. (Come to me, oh Fir! This way, Cipher! Mellow, how I love thee...)

I am, however, wondering whether this is entirely advisable; whether these little skeins of deliciousness will ever make it to actual footwear. See, I'm managing the DPNs. I'm not liking them, but I'm coping. So that's all right. And I'm sure I can figure out this whole peculiar shaping thing, no problem. It's just that..

Well, it's an awful lot of tiny little stitches, isn't it? I'm not the most patient knitter. Never mind Second Sock Syndrome; I'm probably going to have some trouble just getting my First Socks to a decent length before making with the heel turn. Funny, I can handle lots and lots of tiny stitches on straight needles, but on DPNs... ugh.

* We are not counting the aborted two-circs attempt. If it ever gets finished, it will be considered a sock; till then, We Will Not Speak Of It.
** Really, I'm not a big fan of the "knowing my limits" concept. I knit lace. I knit colourwork. I can do this!

Posted by Robynn at 04:53 PM | Permalink | 4 cups of tea on the table

This is Catherine Procter's entry for our Scheherazade competition — exquisitely presented in a little handmade book, bound with three ribbons! Catherine tells me she is an engineer by training, and she seems to believe this means she's not naturally artistic. I beg to differ.

King Shahryar fell in love with Scheherazade during one thousand and one nights of storytelling. He was entranced by her tales and captivated by her beauty. She was wise and kind, and in loving her the King forgot the anger which had filled his heart since the betrayal of his first wife. Scheherazade bore the King three sons, bringing even greater love and joy to his heart.

Scheherazade brought her sons up to be as kind, loving and thoughtful as she. From their earliest days, she took pleasure in telling them wonderful stories, and they grew up loving to tell and hear stories as much as their Mother and Father did.

Scheherazade was creative in many other ways, and made many beautiful things. She particularly enjoyed knitting, keeping her hands busy with one kind of yarn, while her head was full of the other kind. For each of her sons she created a blanket, which he sat on to listen to his Mother's tales. Each blanket was different, reflecting the different personalities and tastes of her boys.

The first born son of Scheherazade and Shahryar displayed, from a very young age, a charming and confident manner, and a spirit that knew, without being told, that he would one day be a King.

He was happy and sociable, adored by everyone at the court, and never happier than when he was at a party or banquet. He was always at his Father's side when the King greeted important guests. The boy was kind and intelligent, and all who met him knew that he would one day be a great and wise ruler.

His favourite stories were true ones, tales of rulers of long ago, and he learned much from his Mother's tales that would help him in later years when he inherited his Father's crown.

His story blanket was knit in rich colours — purple, crimson, royal blue and green, with shining gold stripes.

The second son was happiest outdoors, and away from the noise and excitement of the palace. He was quiet and gentle, and shy around strangers. He liked to be alone in his own little garden, where he grew beautiful flowers, which he would never allow to be picked for anyone but his Mother, or out walking in the countryside.

His favourite time for storytelling was summer, when he would coax his mother outside to sit under his favourite tree with him, while he sat on a blanket adorned with flowers and leaves.

The third son was the one who was most like his mother. He lived to tell and hear stories. He spent his days gathering tales from anyone he could find. He heard tales of far off lands from visiting princes, listened to the servants as they gossiped, or walked to the surrounding villages to listen to old men as they embroidered tales of their youth. At night he sat on the terrace, watching the moon, and dreaming fanciful stories of his own.

His favourite time was evening, when he sat with his family, listening to his Mother's stories, and telling stories to her and his brothers. the blanket he sat on had been knitted in variegated blue yarn, and felted. Stars of misty grey fibre were needle felted on it.

[ Scheherazade winners here; they are wonderful as ever.]

Posted by Robynn at 06:49 PM | Permalink

No, the socks beat me. I thought I was getting somewhere - but then I realised that where I was did not correlate *in any way* to where the pattern thought I was. I reckon I might have managed all right; I was ready to keep going in a tube-like fashion down the foot; but all in all this disconnect between instructions and actuality Did Not Bode Well.

So I'm going to try the DPNs.
And in a moment of madness ambition, I am upgrading from the yucky coloured stuff to the pretty stuff that just arrived from Posh Yarn. And from plain Jane socks to Jaywalkers. (I hate stocking stitch and ribbing. Dull, dull, dull.) They look cute, and simple; and the whole world has made them, so the pattern clearly doesn't suck. Wish me luck, knitters. When it's done I should have some really... sunny feet.

PS. You know what I am very much liking about this sock thing? (Yeah, the inch of it I've managed so far...) I am liking the pattern. Well, no, I am not liking the pattern, the pattern it is Confusing and also Wrong. (A rational and objective person would point out that more likely it is I who am wrong, but I am not liking that interpretation.) But I *am* liking the concept of pattern. I've written before about how I'm so used to doing my own thing and now it occurs to me that it might be not altogether bad to learn from someone else's work for a change... well, I didn't make it very far with the fair isle cardi, and now I'm ploughing along with my own design again on that denim jacket thing* (what can I say; when the muse bites, she bites... yes, I do have an unconventionally aggressive muse) - but it's pleasant to have a pattern thing to try as well. Restful. Also, I'm not doing anything too radical with yarn substitution. I mean, sock yarn is sock yarn, right?

(No, no, please don't tell me. No. We're not talking anything freaky here. No silk or bamboo or even cotton. Good old sock wool. Actual wool.** It'll be fine. Right?)

* Which reminds me: anyone have any thoughts on the whole grosgrain ribbon button band reinforcement thing? How do you tackle the actual buttonholes - machine stitch and cut them into the ribbon to match the knitted band? I hate sewing machines. But I rather think I'm working myself into a corner here.
** Which is very nearly a first. I generally use cotton and such; I don't like scratchy wool, and for many years that's all I knew. But I'm dipping my toe back into the sheepy pond, because I'm not actually allergic, and I hear there's some good stuff out there. Any recommendations for really, really soft wool will be received with interest. Especially really soft, machine washable sock wool with a little microfibre or similar, in luscious, rich, velvety semi-solid colourways. What?! I know it's out there!

Posted by Robynn at 04:06 PM | Permalink | 7 cups of tea on the table

Well, that's what I said, and it tried, it really did. Words were spoken. Unkind Thoughts were voiced. Knitting was, in fact, thrown.

Never one to try one new challenge when two are available, I decided to learn the Great Sock Mystery using the Great Two Circulars Mystery. Because DPNs scare me. There, I said it. So I figured I might as well start as I meant to go on; I ordered Cat Bordhi's book,* I picked up a couple of circs and I got started. It's a bit awkward, this method, but I do think I'm going faster than I would be using DPNs. And fun was being had.

Warning: this is a pictureless post. I have pictures, but I can't show you. There have been Technical Issues and I am, at present, picture challenged. I'm so sorry. Mostly I'm sorry for myself, because Technical Issues make we want to cry, but there it is. We are picture-free.

I'm using a yarn I don't much like — the fibre is fine but the colours, a bit brighter and at the same time flatter than I would like. It was an impulse internet buy and my monitor let me down. So this is fine for a practice sock, and chances are it'll only be worn occasionally round the house, if at all, and all in all I concluded there's no point in working miles of ribbing when I really want to get cracking on the fun parts. So I got into the heel turn really quickly, and this heel turn thiing I like it, it is Good.

It was then that things started to go horribly wrong.

"With the same needle, knit up 15 sts in the loops along the heel flap." Hm, I got 16, but what the hell. Guess I worked two rows too many. "In the intersection..." yes, stitch picked up and ready to twist, no problem, I see what you're doing there. "Place a marker." You kidding? Where? How is it going to stay on the downward-facing needle? You crazy woman. I think I can remember where the gusset starts, thank you. (Maybe I'll try this marker thing a little later.)

"Look at the other end of the needle, where the 18 heel turn stitches are patiently waiting." Okay. I'm looking. "Transfer the distant 9 to the other needle." Lady, I do not like your wording. What do you mean, "the distant 9"? Do you mean "transfer 9 stitches from the far end to the other needle"? Because this "the distant 9" business makes me question myself. It makes me wonder if there is supposed to be a clear and distinct set of 9 stitches sitting somewhere that I don't know about. And I know I'm looking at the other end of the needle, where we've just established there are *18* stitches waiting for my attention, but all together I'm getting a little twitchy. Let's just check where we're going next. Maybe it'll all come together.

"(You will maintain ribbing across instep all the way to the toe.)" No, not helping. I appreciate that sometimes one likes to know what one is going to be doing before one actually starts doing it — in driving, for instance, when one has to pick the right lane — but right now I'm looking for clarity as to where I'm putting what stitches, and you haven't even told me what I'm going to be working yet, and you're already telling me to rib it. This is Confusing. "Knit across half of the instep stitches." Hang on, I thought I was looking at the far end of the needle? That doesn't seem right. I guess I'm still on this end, since that's where the yarn is. So why have I just been poking around on the other end? I'm getting more confused. Okay, so I must knit across "half of the instep stitches"... let's assume that the instep stitches are the ones I just picked up. Knit across... hang on, "knit"? Does she mean "work"? She's just told me to rib the instep. Is this a different section? I'm new to this sock business, I'd appreciate a little more clarity (also, the word "turn" might help, if that's what I have to do), and maybe a number of actual stitches. When in doubt, count, right? Let's look down a bit... Ooh, I see a number later on, let's try to work it out from that. 40 stitches, she says. Where might I have 40 stitches? She wants me to get half of the instep stitches and add them to... where? Here? Will that make 40 stitches? Are the 40 stitches on the other needle? Er, no...

It was at this point that the knitting got thrown, and I settled down (somewhat poutily) to observe Betty's romantic problems undisturbed by sockage. (Henry, Betty! You want Henry! Walter is *boring*! Ohhh... she blew it. Damn. Also, in what universe does someone coming to visit from another state go straight to your office, late at night? Do these people not have lives outside work? Damn.)

I came back to the knitting later, with a calmer mind and improved attitude. It still didn't make much sense to me, but I resolved to just try it, making certain assumptions along the way, and see if it worked. I think I'm getting there.

I'd like to point out that bitchy commentary aside (I get mean when I feel stupid), I do not in fact blame Cat Bordhi for my sock trials. I blame my own delusions of competence. Trying out a sock the old-fashioned way first — a really clearly written pattern, such as, say, the one the lovely Anne wrote especially for me! — and *then* experimenting with circs; that might have been the way to go. Live and learn...

Not that I'm done experimenting, of course. Next stop: magic loop!

_____
* In fact I ordered two; the Great Moebius Mystery is next!

Posted by Robynn at 11:01 AM | Permalink | 9 cups of tea on the table

In between the impossible busying of the last few weeks/months/did I ever have a life ever, I have managed to do a teeny bit of knitting. One stitch at a time. Which, it seems, is all it takes to eventually finish a Clapotis.

It's rather lovely, and is going to look stunning on the recipient, and I would dearly love to have one of my very own. But, dear lord, it does go on rather, doesn't it? I like a little shaping and a little textural stitching in my knitting. Still... I have another four skeins of Lion & Lamb, all wound up and ready to go, and maybe I'll get around to it before next winter. For now, I've started a little summer jacket thing.

I've never really been interested in knitting denim-type yarn (this is Rowan Denim), but suddenly a week or so ago I was bitten with the absolute, frenzied need to make a casual, jeans-jacket inspired cardi. Maybe because I never had such a jacket before; the classic style is generally not cut for the busty, but relatively slim-waisted woman — so this was an opportunity to get my own, custom-fit version! It took me about five minutes to go from "ooh, there's a nice idea..." to "confirm order". The inspiration may or may not show through clearly in the finished product... but it'll be a fun, relaxed, wearable garment, and I'm really looking forward to seeing how it fades. That piece is just a swatch; yeah, I believe in making big tension swatches, especially when shrinkage is such an issue.

That picture is totally faked, by the way. I do not sit around drinking tea out of pretty china while I knit. I wish I could, but I don't. Most nights, I get in around half an hour of knitting in front of the TV, as we finish watching whatever show we started watching over supper. (Usually Medium, Ugly Betty or the West Wing; we're working our way through the whole (borrowed) box set. Beloved has ruled Heroes out as too drama-y, after a promising start.) ...But it makes a pretty picture, no?

The other time I get to haul out my needles (or hook, more often; I find crochet better suited to public transport than knitting) is on the train. But I don't do that very consistently; the train is also the only time I get to read. Which explains the slow progress on Gecko Ridge. But we're nearly there.

Now I'm at the panicking-that it won't-all-go-together-perfectly stage. Especially since my tension seems to be way less regular in crochet than in knitting; that, or the gauge varies quite dramatically between different shades of Kureyon. My squares are not all the same size. Still, I can always fudge it with some extra trim... I think. It's going to be interesting.

Only one other thing to report. That fair isle cardi... that's taken a trip to the frog pond. Sad, but there you go. I'd let it languish for far too long (Christmas knitting and that infernal Clap), and when I came back, the magic was gone. I think the fair isle and the colours were a poor match, actually; although I had swatched a different fair isle pattern that worked really well. So I'll probably go back to it at some point with a different stitch pattern pasted onto the same cardigan.

Probably.
When I'm done with all the other knitting I have lined up.
Like this.

Italian silks, bought in Venice. Not as soft as the Jaeger or Debbie Bliss, but such beautiful, subtle, lustrous colours! (You'll have to take my word for that. I've been playing with the Big Camera, but alas, I'm still not much cop. Also, the light in our front room is crap, and there's nowhere to take pictures in the bedroom. Yeah. Let's blame the light.)

Posted by Robynn at 12:07 PM | Permalink | 6 cups of tea on the table

Scene: a dark and empty room. Cobwebs flutter in the corners; wind whistles through the broken windows. Somewhere, a shutter bangs.
An ominous creak is heard... a beam of light cuts across the dusty floor. As the door slowly opens, a freckled nose peers around it.

The freckled nose is followed by an embarrassed-looking 30-something woman, clutching a knitting bag. She shuts the door behind her and switches on the light. The room suddenly looks a little more friendly. She clears her throat, tries again in a stronger voice. "I'm back." Dumps the bag on the table in the centre of the room. "And I've got some stuff to show you... if you're still talking to me."

By far the biggest, best and most exciting thing is — at LAST — the first of the Storytellers patterns. Including those stockings. Go here (the patterns are linked under three entries: Cinders' Secret Stockings, the Fairy Godmother Scarf and the Wire-Laced Bag) and be sure to come back and tell me what you think!

After that it's hard for any knitting to measure up — so I'm not even going to try, just yet. Enjoy some pretty pictures of Italy instead.

More here and here.

Posted by Robynn at 11:10 AM | Permalink | 2 cups of tea on the table