The silence of the lambswool

Dealing with knitwear is a dangerous pastime.

This morning, I nearly put my (beringed) left hand through Caffe Nero's plate-glass; I punch the lightshade in my bedroom at least once a month (this is more to do with the randomness of where I happen to be standing than anything else); and in Sri Lanka, once, I nearly lost a finger when I reached through my sleeve and put my right hand into the ceiling fan.

It is worth remembering that Agamemnon's irrascible wife gave him a sewn-up shirt (literally: she stitched him up) and then hacked his head off with an axe.