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.
