Toe Redux

Sometimes I get so caught up in finishing a project that I forget it's going to have a long life ahead of itself when it leaves my needles.  In other words, someone's gonna wear this thing and it's not going to be me!

Tonight, my Uncle tried on the finished sock--as compared to the not quite yet but almost, I promise before you drive back to Canada it will be done, sock (just to be clear).  The sock fit.  Breathe a big sigh of relief and pat myself on the--whoops, not yet.  The toe, he said, is too pointy. Too pointy?  Too pointy!  Oh rats.

So tonight it's rip, rip, rip out 6 rows.  Lose the marker that says where the beginning of my round is.  Panic.  Count and figure and cross my fingers and hope I got it about right, cause that's where it is now, folks.  And try a different toe that, in pictures at least, looks a lot rounder.  Less pointy.  When that is done, I will be ripping out my beautiful Kitchener--is that even possible--from the sock that I thought I'd never have to touch again, and re-knitting that toe, too. 

Geesh.  Who knew people got picky about articles of clothing?

And did I mention what he calls the socks?  The Inferno socks (yes, with jokes about Dante and erudite mutterings in Italian, just to show he's smart and a PhD, and because he's weird that way).  Which goes to show that men do not understand color, much less the complex alchemy of hand painted sock yarn.  Do I point out the lovely, chromatically complex shadings of wine, grape leaf green, and russet?  Nope.  The PhD calls it red and makes allusions to Dante, so I hold my tongue. 

At least he likes them.  And because he likes them, every person in southern Ontario will have seen them in a month or so.  It's fame, of a sort.  Maybe now I'll be The Sock Niece as well as The Scarf Niece.  Ah, titles.  Queen Mum, eat your heart out.