(For those of you unfamiliar with my wool-shattering confession that I harbour clothes moths, the moment that I admitted, as Stephanie likes to say, that I live with Knitter's Herpes, here's the link.)
When we have a hatch, as is going on this week, little flitting things will cause any one of us to suddenly leap up in the middle of a conversation to clap our hands furiously at the apparent thin air, trying to send the voracious little shits on to their next level of incarnation. We develop an eagle's peripheral vision and hands as swift as David Carradine. Living here, you get used to pleasant conversations about Cotes de Rhone or Bruce Springsteen being interrupted by physical explosions of vigilante justice against the moths.
But the wool survives because I have a game plan, and I follow it more or less consistently. The death toll remains low on our side because of the holy trinity of moth defense: 1) the freezer 2) the pheromone traps and 3) the hot as Hades trunk of the car in the summer.
This week, Trinket came out of quarantine(there was a good chance it had been exposed and I wasn't taking any chances), and is sailing merrily along, approaching the 45 inches mark. The instructions call for 65 inches in length, but as it is with scarves, I always lose heart about 3/4 of the way, and wonder about the creative way I could wear it were it only about 75% done. This seems to call for a clever photo essay with several ever-so-slightly amusing pictures of myself draped alluringly in a bandeau of kid silk haze, goofily babushka'd, and topically blindfolded perhaps, but you'll just have to exercise your own imagination.
What else, I wonder, could one do with a too short width of kid silk haze?