Last night, the German pair bobbled a lift in their free skate program. The announcer, watching the woman awkwardly slip down her partner's torso, breathed "Hoo boy!" into the microphone, and then was silent.
That describes my Olympic knitting. Hoo boy. I've never done a knit-in-the-round-join-sleeves-to-yoke construction before. My inexperience in this competition is showing. The pattern calls for a 29" circ. Got that. I am struggling even before I attach the 85 stitches of the second sleeve. My performance last night, like several freestyle skiers, was RNS (run not scored).
I, of course, did not have a 36" #7 Clover circ. Other PFK (prior frogged knits) taught me the lesson of subbing different makes of needles in the same size. One cuff of this same sweater was frogged because #7 Clover is not equal to a #7 Lantern Moon dpn.
(How does one define experience? Experience is recognizing the same mistake when you make it again.)
I acquired the necessary equipment, and am ready to continue the competition this evening.
I am watching the Olympics in silence each evening. Occasionally, I moan in sympathetic pain when someone falls. I scornfully deride some of the easier, and some of the harder scoring inconsistencies that blaze up onto the screen.
Two generations into political correctness, where everyone gets a medal, Olympic games are capturing the world's attention with competitions that reward only the top three contenders. I admire the athletes who throw themselves into this fire. This commentator captures this anti-zeitgeist perfectly.
Must end with picture. The view from our lunch table several weeks ago: