Wednesday, February 29, 2012


Hello dear reader, thank you ever so much for dropping by.

What you have stumbled across here is the written record of my adventures in knitting, and more specifically, learning to knit. What follows is an account of how this all began…

I was taught the most very basic principles sometime last year, in a Christmas holiday from university. My mother has what she calls a ‘background in textiles’ and what the rest of us call an unnatural affectation for all things fibre, but more on that at a later date. She had picked up knitting after a long break and was keen for me to join her in her pursuit. I was reluctant, and managed to stave off the instruction for an honourable amount of time. However, on my parent’s moving to a despicably rural location and an angsty 21 year old coming home to said location, I resolved that there wasn’t really much else to do but finally succumb to knitting lessons. Hurriedly, my mother desperately tried to teach me the basics, whilst at the same time trying to enlighten my passions to the dizzying heights that my knitting could achieve. I was daunted, uninterested, and wholly inadequate. I could knit, I could purl, and that was about it. Casting on? No way. Casting off? Don’t you just pull? I knitted a hat, some arm warmers (just tubes) and not much else. And of course, when I say I knitted them, that is an accurate description of my contribution to the projects. No sewing up, no casting on or off, just the bulk of the knitting.

I left the homestead to return back to university, and though my dissertation procrastination strategies did push me wholeheartedly into the arms of my new hobby, I wasn’t fully inclined to pick up my knitting unless I really did have 10,000 words to write by tomorrow.  I couldn’t say whether I enjoyed it or not. It just sort of happened, the same apathy that comes from buying a sandwich in Boots. You don’t hate it, it is just an event that occurs on the way to the much better, much more rewarding crème egg. In this metaphor, I guess the crème egg is the final, knitted product. I have no aversion to knitwear, but any trip to Primark would prove that knitwear didn’t have to be an investment; it could be a cheap afterthought. Why would I need to actually make anything where I could have the children of some poor third world country make it for next to nothing? Anyway, I digress. I powered through university with hopes of a high-flying career waiting for me just around the corner from graduation. I waited and waited, but no power-suited officials came to me with a dream career in their hands, only people from banks and phone companies who wanted people with more sensible degrees than mine to join their graduate schemes.

I regretted having to move home. It symbolised a whole lot of failure on various aspects of life, and proved that though I had achieved a respectable degree from a Russell Group university, I had come full circle. The central heating and cooked food was welcomed, but save for that it was, all in all, a depressing time. Meanwhile, whilst I was getting into the pits of depression about my lack of direction in a typically melodramatic way, my mother was busy trying to get her new business off the ground: wool. The house was full of it, in all shapes and sizes, and the evening television was constantly accompanied by the noise of mum’s needles and her not-so-in-her-head counting of stitches. That was the final straw. As they say, if you can’t beat them, join them. So I did, I picked up my knitting again, with the sole, selfish aim of knitting myself the most glorious Gryffindor scarf the world had seen. 

I’ll take a small aside here and explain that Gryffindor, if you don’t already know, is a school house of Hogwarts, and, more importantly, the house of Harry Potter, Ron and Hermione. And, of course, many other characters of note, but I shan’t bore you by reciting them here. I wanted Harry Potter memorabilia that was quality, and that didn’t cost me $60 PLUS shipping. Following a fairly childish strop about the precise colours that I needed, I got the wool and was ready to begin.

I knitted row after row after row, changing colour when required. It was hella boring. It was so boring, I found myself questioning the sanity of any knitter. Surely, no sane, intellectually functioning person would submit themselves to something that I was pretty sure is par with the tools used to get information from imprisoned fugitives. I’m telling you, all this business with James Bond and a rope can be no more, give him a long scarf to knit in one colour, and I guarantee, the information will be yours in minutes.

It was during this time that the mothership and I decided to try out a sort-of-local knitting club that was new in our area. I say ‘sort-of-local’ because when 6 of your 10 neighbours are sheep, nothing is really local. It was through my persistence in the group and our continued attendance and my chronic unemployment that I was offered a part-time job in a wool showroom, the wonderful, patient, accommodating Great British Yarns. I was in no position to turn it down, and it’s certainly turning out to be an interesting life direction. 

So that’s where you find me, working part-time selling wool, erstwhile learning as much as I can about knitting and trying my best to be a good knitter.

This blog will stand as a record of my exploits, hopefully entertaining, thoughtful and interesting. If you're up for it, chuck us a like on Facebook.

Thanks for coming, and check back soon, there’s lots more to follow.