Losing things

There is a piece by Beethoven popularly known as Rage for a Lost Penny. It is busy and frantic, and it does not end with any feeling of the triumph of a successful search. This piece resonates, and certainly touched  a nerve. So many have had the experience of not being able to find something. And it drives you nutty.

At present I am searching for a ball of dark blue wool. It is being used to make some more crocheted squares, for the ABC's Knit In. (Or is it Knitting with Love?) Anyway, lots of people get together and makes squares, mostly knitted, but some crocheted, and then there is a big day when people get together and join them all up into wraps, or blankets. The squares must measure 10 inches.

I cannot knit, so my squares are crocheted. They are made from spare and odd balls, and are in many different colours, leftovers from previous cot blankets, and from other balls I bought so I could keep my hands busy. Assembling them into a harmonious combination is difficult, and new squares in different colour combinations have been multiplying.

Once upon a time (sighs plaintively here) it was possible to choose from a extensive array of colours. No more. Odds and sods are what is available now. Various shades of murk tend to predominate. Clear bright colours are scarce.  I keep buying more balls of wool, advising myself to exercise some restraint, for heaven's sake, and fiddling with the arrangement of the squares.

I was using the dark blue to edge the squares only a couple of days ago, as I sat, peaceably enough, minding my own business, in the lounge while watching the TV. I finished the square, and now the ball has disappeared.

It is not under the chair (I have looked several times already), or in the chair, under the rug, anywhere on the coffee table, up the stairs, in the bag of wool, in the backpack I take with me to my classes, nor in any of my pockets, under the stairs, on the ironing board, near the computer, in the bookshelves, in the bedroom, in or under the bed,  in the bathroom, in the cupboards, pantry or kitchen drawers. I cannot find it here or there. I cannot find it ANYWHERE.

It is driving me bonkers. The only thing which might calm me would be to go out and (a) buy the CD of the Rage for a Lost Penny, or b) buy a new ball of dark blue wool - assuming it is still on sale. At choir, I asked our accompanist if she knew and played the piece. She did, but she shuddered slightly.

Never let it be thought that squares are the only thing I crochet, even though there is a spare cot blanket in my cupboards. It is in shades of deep and bright pink and black, but as my nieces have all had boys, I don't think any of them would receive this blanket with glad cries. I think the world believes that if a male child is put anywhere near pink, his vital appendage will fall off forthwith. We cannot have that happen, can we? The risk is simply too great. So I hope someone has another girl child soon....

I have been crocheting a very 1970s style sweater, which I started before Dr P went to hospital. The wool is lovely and a gorgeous shade of wisteria or jacaranda. Very fetching, I hope. I had to pull out quite a lot of it, as I could not follow the pattern. It has been years since I tried to make anything at all complicated. The day before Dr P died I took it to the crochet clinic and the amazing expert sorted it all out for me, and said the pattern was extremely badly written, not to mention wrong.

Since then work has progressed and I am now on the second sleeve. Then will come the fun of sewing it all together, and hoping it fits. Occasionally I take the crochet to places such as choir, where a little can be done while other parts are being rehearsed. Now there are a few of us who do some knitting or crocheting. One of the choristers farms out wool and the pattern to make loose socks for people in nursing homes. The combination of making music and making things by hand is rather pleasant and links us together in more ways than one.

I expect the only way of making the wretched missing ball turn up is to buy another one.