In which our heroine fails to RTFM*

Yesterday was one of those rare days when I was caught up on work (not counting that the house is a pit). Much happiness generally ensues.

Our friend Rhys had just gotten in town from NYC to play at McGurk's for the week. I gave him a lift down to the fiddle shop to have his fingerboard shaved. Much bawdy joking ensued.

I played around with my new camera, taking photos of the shop dogs, the walls of violins, Geoff resetting a sound peg, artistic shots of wooden clamps on cellos, a box of fiddle nuts. I ate candy out of the shop bowl. I had fun.

Later, a bunch of us went back to McGurk's for dinner and to catch the first few sets. I snapped more photos to test out the lighting. There was spontaneous dancing, friends who've known me since my salad days, and good food. I was a bit wistful, but content, and at moments very happy.

This morning, with no class prep needed, I cast on for the Lala scarf. I sat in my cushy chair and ran the silky orange mohair through my fingers and on to the bright green needles. I was inspired.

I got fifteen rows done before deciding to take the book and the project outside to get some photos for the blog. Since the house is a dust-covered pit (did you think I was exaggerating before?), indoor photos were not an option. I loved the contrast of the orange yarn, the kelly green needles, the deeper green of the peony leaves, the yellow of the one blooming black-eyed susan, and the bright colors of the book. I was convinced I had one great photo.

This afternoon, when I went to upload the photos (the shop, the bar, the knitting), they were gone, all of them. I was crushed.

I don't know exactly what I did. I've some theories, but may never know for sure. I do know for sure that I'll *Read The Fucking Manual. I am resolved.