I took up knitting when my fairly hideous first boyfriend was messing me around.
I was moping around at home in Christmas university holidays (I’m a late bloomer, OK), opening different drawers in a flamboyantly dejected manner. I found my Mum’s old needles and yarn, got a quick lesson and found a quick route to a calm mind. Who wouldn’t rather think of knitting one, purling one, than the intricacies of a 21 year old boy’s confused motivations?
The immediate result was an awful curling mohair strip. But 6 years and a close association with the (highly recommended) knittinghelp.com later, it’s a passion. Not, of course, a passion that persistently flatters me, either in the act or in the outcome. Despite the fact it’s supposedly cool these days (cue mandatory claim to have taken it up before that happened), people don’t react well to the sight of me hunched with needles clicking. As if an old fashioned habit is somehow distasteful or evidence of unsound mind. And certainly one resulting v-necked sleeveless jumper is best seen on a golf course despite the technical brilliance of its steeking ( Click here if you can’t STAND not knowing what that is. I know you care.)
These days that boyfriend is long gone, but the knitting’s going nowhere.