So here’s a blurb about knitting:

We lived with my grandmother for a number of years. Then when I started school, every day I went to my grandmother’s house.

To make a long story short, she introduced me to my one major failing. Yes, I, friendly public, cannot knit.

I can crochet, thanks to her, quilt, thanks to her, sew, thanks to her, darn socks and sweaters, thanks to her, embroider (shut up), thanks to her, but I can NOT knit.

I *know* how to knit, sure. Purl, too. Cast on, cast off… it’s all there. When I start off, everything’s fine…

Three rows INTO the project, however, it’s a different story. By that ill-fated third row, it’s all tighter than… well… there’s no need to finish that. I can barely get the needles back into the stitches, and I’m usually tied up in the yarn.

I can’t say that I’ve even TRIED in the past 15 years.

It’s traumatic.

Sniff.

I’m a packrat by nature. Damn, I still have email from 1983.

I need to setup a home office for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that we run two businesses — a theatre company, and an improv club — from the house.

I went out and bought office furniture, brought it home, and then came up with the bright idea of setting up the office in “the spare room”.

Bright idea. I know what you’re thinking. Spare room! Great!

We’ve lived in this house since 1998 and have used the spare room as a big closet, tossing all manner of items as far as we could into the room, and then closing the door.

I’ve been throwing things out for two days. It’s done. I’m drained. I had several “Clean Sweep” moments:

The object is not the person. The object is not the memory. You can throw away the object and keep the memory.

Among the 7 garbage bags of memorabilia I threw out were: my first kilt, the chanter from my much grieved set of uilleann pipes, the head joint of a 230 year old flute (stolen along with the pipes), a bunch of Christmas and birthday cards, and some university notebooks… sigh.

It almost felt therapeutic. I need a beer.