I seriously just spent my whole day off, between running errands and having lunch with family, trying to crochet a cloche.
To. Crochet. A. Cloche.
And finally, when I realized my crochet gauge is as crazy-loose as my knitting gauge, and after I’d gone up in size four times in both yarn weight and hook size, and when I’d finished said hat at almost ten, and when I put it on, I realized, yep. I looked exactly as if I should be selling hemp products on Telegraph Avenue with my dog and pet rat playing at my feet (no offense to hemp, Telegraph, dogs, or rats). Strangely, I did NOT (even with bangs) look like Amelie. I was not suddenly eating creme brulee, or skipping stones across St. Martins Canal. Parisian birds were not singing. Harriet burped at my feet as I looked at myself, and I vaguely wondered where my Birkenstocks were.
No I will not show you. Oh-ho, no.
Crochet is for the weak. Or the very, very strong. And I am neither. I’m going to go knit now. Solace.
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