The Yarn : A Story of Christmas Socks

I don’t do internet porn. Well, that’s not quite true. I get my kicks from coasting various web-sites and ogling yarn. Mostly it’s wool but sometimes it’s cotton and I have been known to get my kicks from imaging the soft feel of silk between my needles. OK I admit it I am a yarn addict. My flat is coming down with the stuff. Chunky & bright red, fine pinks and blues and the translucent haze of fine mohair. I own more yarn than I will probably ever knit and I am even quite relieved when I don’t win another auction on ebay.

It’s always hard over Christmas. I desperately try not to add to my stash (a well-known term amongst knitters for wool they keep to fondle) and try and knit my Christmas presents from it. I vow to do this every year but last year I failed. I was on this web-site and the yarn waved and winked at me. I swear it did. If it didn’t it certainly said

“Your Aunt Isabel would love me!”

“But my Aunt Isabel doesn’t knit. That’s my Aunt Helena. “

“But you do.”

Two days later I was opening the package and there it was 100g of sock yarn. Rich browns, reds, a touch of crimson and a contrast of green.

“You win.” I sighed. “Now what do I do with you?”

The yarn nestled in my hand and stroked my cheek.

“Stop that! You aren’t helping! If I don’t get an idea soon, you’ll just linger on the sofa and now I am going to be late for work.  Where did I put those socks? Socks? Yes. I’ll just get my needles. Well, when I get home ”

I couldn’t concentrate at work. All I could think of was how the golds and reds would make the perfect simple sock. No need for a complex pattern, the yarn would do the work but on my way home doubts began to set in as I remembered I didn’t like knitting socks that much. The cast-on was fiddly, it was too easy to lose needles when knitting in the round & was for turning the heel? Was it worth it.

Back home, the yarn grinned at me with the delight of someone who hadn’t moved all day, smug, knowing that they were so attractive. One stroke and the die (or should I say dye) was cast. 2.5mm needles out, the yarn eased out of the ball-band and we were off.

Cast on 64 stitches, divide across 3 needles, swear lots as yarn twists as if in discomfort. Swear more, yip out stiches and cast on again and again. Why socks I moaned. Yarn looked at me triumphantly but this was a battle I wasn’t going to lose. Try again and this time knit a row of rib and then divide it. Yes, it’s worked and I was off.

Yarn, needles, fledgling sock and I became inseparable for a week. I got used to picking up stitches, managed not to cry when one of the needles fell into a grille on a Southwest train and with gritted teeth pulled out another one. We saw the sights, yarn, sock and I. We sat on the tops of buses, kept each other company in the intervals of concerts, and even visited the sea where we sat on a bench admiring the angry grey sea. People told us stories of their knitting. It was our honeymoon.

Sock grew and grew and then its twin materialised. Knitting needles down, darning needle to tie in those ends. Brown, red, gold & green socks already for Christmas. I held them to my cheek one last time, a final stroke and then surrendered them to the silver wrapping paper.

“Good-bye dear socks.”

Christmas lunch over, the family gathered round the Christmas tree, black plastic bags of wrapping paper were bulging. Finally Aunt Isabel opened her floppy silver parcel.

“Socks.” She said. “How nice. Thank you dear. Oh, Juliet how clever of you to get me this vase. It’s so like the ones that the twins broke. I can already see it with the first daffodils of the year”

The socks and I looked at each other.

“Don’t worry,” they chorused “she won’t know what hit her. We’ll make her feet the most grateful feet in London as they’ll be the warmest and best dressed.”

They did and they were.

A musical journey

Musical memories. Some blur, some sharp and some flat. Four London concert halls: The Royal Albert Hall - musical greats, the unique Proms atmosphere and reaction - Abbado held the audience rapt for 54 seconds. Gunter Wand's final London performance almost stifled us. Sir Colin Davis charmed us with his performances with youth orchestras. The Queen Elizabeth Hall - smaller and perfectly formed. First heard Ave Verum Corpus there as well as being there on 30th December 2000, the night before being made redundant from the Dome. I was there the night the US invaded Afghanistan. Then we have the Royal Festival Hall. My first classical concert - Mozart's Jupiter, Tennstedt's Beethoven 9, falling in love with Mahler. Charismatic performances by Wayne Marshall, Chailly and the place where I fell in love with Thomas Hampson, Brendel's last London performance. So many memories and three very different buildings.

The fourth - the Barbican. Fewer firsts, fewer spectacular memories, but a jewel in a concrete bunker and the home of the London Symphony Orchestra. I got hooked on the Barbican in 1991 - a celebration of Mozart. My love affair with the LSO was started on sketchy grounds in the Tilson-Thomas years; there's only so much Beethoven and early Mahler symphonies a girl can take. Then along came Sir Colin Davis.

Sir Colin had already influenced my musical life. For my 8th birthday I got a Beatles LP & 3 symphonies. Tchaikovsky 5th (never played, my family don't have the Russian romantic gene); Karajan's Eroica (the symphony has become my anthem) & Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique conducted by Colin Davis which has fascinated me ever since. To celebrate graduating my parents took me to The Royal Opera House for the first time to hear Fidelio (one review : unconvincing as a man until you see her as a woman - it was the yanking off the dark wig to reveal a blonde one) but the music & Colin Davis captivated me. A few years later I was back. Questioned as to whether I went to the Opera House often I could have replied "only for Fidelio and Colin Davis".

My friendship with the Barbican began in 1991 with the bicentenary of Mozart's death. My father and I went to 1 concert and that was it I was hooked. The Barbican Hall saw more of me than the City Wine bars that as a corporate finance banker I was expected to frequent. I brgan to learn so much about music, concert-going and independence. It was also in 1991 that I moved out of my parents' home and exercised my own choice. Over the years we frequently met at the Barbican having not consulted over booking. We wondered if there was such a thing as the Mozart gene. I found that during Sir Colin's years as Principal conductor I was drawn to his concerts. I wasn't exclusive and I remember Sir Georg Solti conducting Mozart with 10 double-basses! I became a Prommer & kept up my visits to the RFH. It was the LSO that was my principal love.

I discovered Sibelius through Colin Davis' cycle; loving the way he added added the shorter pieces as encores. I relished the way he danced through the  Valse Triste. Watching him with a female youth leader I wondered if he would dance off the podium. A repeat cycle and my parents were in raptures over his Sibelius. For the first time my Father had booked concerts because I had loved them. We had become equals in taste and I owe that to Colin Davis.

With Colin's retirement I found myself going to the LSO less often particularly as I had less time to go. My visits made me realise how precious the LSO and he was to me. I resolved to make the most of every opportunity to hear him conduct. I am not sure how many cycles of Cosi van Tutti at ROH I heard (one performance per cycle, I am not that rich) I heard and I was there on the night his wife died. He didn't convert me to Nielsen but realising there would be limited chanes of hearing this partnership I decided to make the most of it. I ended up in Aix-en-Provence.

Lovely, lovely Aix. A medieval Palace courtyard with an open aid theatre. A mono-chrome performac of Clemenzo di Tito. Sarah Connelly, the LSO and Colin Davis. What more could a girl want? How about a repeat performance of a Barbican concert replacing Mitsuko Uchida with Nelson Frere. On this one I was questioned. Why spend the money on that concert? It did seem a bit daft. On the night it was amazing. Nelson Frere was a revelation, the orchestra sounded so much sweeter in the different acoustic. Colin was Colin and the next day people on a tour to the Cezanne hills were raving about it. The audience at the opera were enraptured as was I. I realised I was so privileged to have this partnership as my musical heritage.

Booking these performances brought me back to the LSO. They also started me on the rather expensive hobby of "collecting" European opera houses. This Summer I went back to Aix - Don Giovanni. No longer Colin but still the magic of the LSO even if the director should have been shot for having Zerlina treat don Giovanni's coat as a comfort blanket while he dies of an epileptic fit.

Having been back to the LSO & the Barbican I know it will always represent my voyage of discovery, where I feel musically at home. Through performances I have discovered other conductors and Maria Joao Pires. I miss Sir Colin's graciousness and gracefulness. His musicianship nurtured my Mozart gene. I know that his music continues in his legacy of remarkable performances & recordings many of which I own..

Sir Colin and the London Symphony Orchestra thank you for my musical journey.