A week ago I got all excited by how cold my new office is. I had one of the guys go out and get me a thermometer so that I could coo about the new lows in this little space that has no heating vents and single pane windows that leak hissy wind (and possibly snow). I felt the cold would mark the need to wear wristies, as demonstrated in picture, that went beyond being affected to de rigeur computer wear. I made those for a co-worker last year because she had a propensity to write or take phone calls outside mid-winter. I made the second pair for another friend who works outside, scribbling away in the dark and cold. Last I heard, her daughter had appropriated them. Finally, my turn, to have wristies, Dickensian scribbler gloves, justification for another cup of hot coffee and a cookie, a pink nose, and chilly martyr complex. There was a reason for all those socks (which are on the feet under the desk). When a cold front started to move in, the same front that buried Buffalo, I started knitting a pair (with leftover mourning boyfriend sweater black wool). I even brought them in to complete on the morning that I anticipated the temperature in my little abode away from home was going to dip below 60F. I unlocked the door, waited for the cold to slide out and hit my knees first... nothing. The wind had shifted back to the west, and apart from a slightly musty cool, there was no freezer burn, no paper shifted in the inbox from blasting winds. Bah, h....


This woman was knitting in the Forbidden Palace in Beijing, outside, in January. Beijing was as cold as Montreal. No doubt she was knitting wristies.