Harry Burns, When Harry Met Sally… (1989): The fact that you’re not answering leads me to believe that (a) You’re not home, (b) You’re home but you don’t want to talk to me, or (c) You’re home, desperately want to talk to me, but trapped under something heavy. If it’s either (a) or (c), please give me a call.
Yikes. Five-ish years since I wrote anything resembling anything on this blog! Per usual, life gets in the way. Jobs, family, apartments, the entire catalogue of Midsomer Murders available on Netflix…I’ve been busy. But I solemnly swear I’m up to no good, and getting back into writing this thing. It’s not like I haven’t been knitting – I sure have (I even did a cross-stitch, which I haven’t done since I was a teenager).
I can’t possibly catalogue the knitting projects I’ve completed – the good, bad and ugly – so I’m just going to pick up as if I went on a sabbatical to Cabot Cove and helped JB Fletcher solve some crimes for the last 4 years.