My brother's back garden at his house in Bowral. We had lunch at this table yesterday.
Not very well spun, but I do have a couple of new ounces of merino-tencel for travel knitting on The Sweater That Will Not Get Done (but which is bending to my will, pictures later).
And for afterwards, a bagful of colours.
Funny thing, I bought this yarn in Australia last time I was here, a year ago.
Call me foolish, but I'm dead keen to knit a skirt, but now that I'm here, and have had a chance to think about it, a mix of colours might not be ideal for a skirt - how can it be anything but much too busy? - but I'm committed to this yarn because it's all I have.
The other constraint? It needs to be knittable on short double-pointed needles, as that's what I brought. I was thinking "modular", and now I'm wondering how to avoid "Way Too Much". Multiple colours would be easier in a jacket, but I'm certain that if I try really really REALLY hard, I could come up with a skirt that doesn't screech "Hideous Clown". Well, I think I can.
It's lovely being here with my brothers, my mother, my nieces and nephews. The mood is pretty good, all things considered. The phone rings constantly, calls originating in South Africa, Israel, and here in Australia.
One thing that's interesting: the calls and emails from my generation talk about the man my father was, and how the facets of his essential self affected their lives, while those from my parents' generation reflect on the good times they've had. Dementia is a ghastly way to go; its danger being that the more recent memories could override and overshadow what was.
Here's self-styled The Printheth of Beauty (She's not the queen, she's not the Printheth of Flowers, thank you very much).