The Poster Day For Dreary

It's warm today, yes,  probably close to 40 degrees but, man, is it dreary.  Gray, damp, a little rainy.  See the raindrop ripples on the birdbath?





I spent the morning on the couch weaving in the tails of Sudoku Strip #6 which I finished at Knitting Guild last night, then working on crocheting the last three blocks of squares together.  Next I have to knit two looooong strips the same width as the last six for joining the panels.  Then the big decision is how to finish the whole Sudoku Afghan.  I'm leaning toward doing Log Cabin edges which means picking up stitches along one side, knitting enough rows to make the width I want, then picking up stitches along each of the other sides in turn, the second strip overlapping the first, the third overlapping the second, and the fourth overlapping the third and first strips, or I'll just grab a crochet hook and single crochet around until I lose faith in humanity (or my hand gets tired) and call it a day.  One of those, I'm almost positive.
 

I did manage to finish the Soup Hat yesterday at work.  I had just enough business and phone calls that it was after four o'clock when I got done.  Whew.  That way I had something to show off at Guild last night.  It looks pretty good (and it doesn't smell like chicken soup) but it'll look even better once it has a swim in wool wash and gets blocked to open up the lace and make it look all pretty.

January 20--Auguste Francois Gorguet, At the Ball.  Alex closed the car door and glanced off into the wooded strip that screened his driveway from the neighbor.  In the pale light of the nearly full moon he saw a glowing mound where there should have been only brush.  "Damn litterbugs," he muttered figuring someone flung a bag of trash into the trees, "too lazy to go to the dump."  He rounded the front of his car and took a few steps between the trees to pick up the trash and put it into the bin next to his garage.  Clouds shifted and a shaft of silver moonlight struck the white mound.  He turned cold when he saw the pale hand with fingers curled.  That was not a bag of trash, it was a young woman in a frothy party dress.  He backed away fumbling his phone out to punch in 9-1-1 before the spots dancing in his vision made it impossible for him to see the numbers.

Alrighty then.  As soon as this is posted I'm headed back to the couch and my aimless afternoon of watching TV and crocheting or knitting.  See ya.
--Barbara