I was sitting in an airport, waiting for the flight to a teaching engagement, winding yarn. Travel with a swift being sadly impractical, I was making do with the back of an empty chair. Without warning, a screeching ninny plunged into view and grabbed at the unwound skein.
“So cute!” she screamed, jangling a fistful of wool in one painted claw. “Are you, like, doing some crochet or something?”
“That was the plan,” I said.
But it was too late. The skein had become a tangle so dense not even light could escape from it.
Working out occasional small snarls is part of knitting. There’s no avoiding it. But really big messes like this? Forget it. I’ve always taken them as a sign that I wasn’t supposed to knit with that yarn, anyway.
When I got to the guild I mentioned what had happened and displayed the ruined skein.
“It was so pretty, too,” I said. “But now it’s dead.”
“No it’s not,” said the Chief Guild Lady. “Somebody get Eileen.”
There was a general chorus of agreement: Eileen must be got.