Yesterday Ross and I walked from Earls Court, all the way down Kings Road to Peter Jones. I bought two balls of Rowan Pure Wool DK to knit FrankenMitts.
By the time I got home I was so tired; we'd done quite a lot of walking and it was super busy, and the Tube was delayed. All I wanted to do was plonk in front of the TV with a glass of cider, and cast on for these mittens. I printed the pattern, and then realised I don't have the right needles. Argh!!!
We got woken up at 4:30am last night. I heard a bloke coughing, and assumed it was a drunk that had gotten off the night bus and decided our car park was a good place to pee. However, Ross, with his supersonic hearing, heard a girl with him who was worriedly saying something about 'tripping'. It's only now when I think back on it that I remembered that his cough was kind of strange. It's hard to explain, but there was something 'rhythmic' to it. Every cough that he did sounded exactly the same - something that people only seem do when they have taken acid. It brought back memories of Latitude when our teenage tent neighbour got spiked and did the same thing. Weird. It's enough to put me off ever wanting to go near the stuff. I should have leaned out the window and told him to have a bad trip somewhere else, that would have really freaked him out!

















