In addition to my Walter Mittyesque image of myself as a linguist, famed wit, social flutterby and writer of no little renown, I also fancy myself to be wonderfully creative and crafty. I have a box full of scrap paper, scissors, string and sweet wrappers that I refer to as "my treasure trove" (though I don't call it that out loud, lest Andrew confuse it with his "treasure box", which is full of sweets). But; bar the occasional pressed flower pritt-sticked to a crookedly cut card and presented to a forgiving grandparent, there is little actual evidence that I have any talent for twee.
I come from a long line of crafty women. My mother is a seamstress (currently making a dress for me to get married in) and her own mother is an accomplished knitter. Mam has tried over the years to teach me how to sew, but her efforts have all been in vain (I lack natural aptitude and any inclination to apply myself). I still go behind her back to have my dad sew on my loose buttons.
Being able to sew would be great, I think, and I imagine that if I really wanted to I could be Vivienne Westwood, only cuddly and with less makeup. But I'm lazy, and too chubby for haute couture.
So instead of persevering, losing weight and learning to cut cloth, I decided I'd learn how to knit. I think it might be a manifestation of my "oh fuck I'm getting married and I need to start doing grown-up stuff" crisis (November 2009-Present). If I am someday to become a mother, I want to be able to punish my children by dressing them in ill-fitting striped tea-cosies.
A new wool shop has opened in Rathmines called Knit 'nd Make (the 'nd breaks my heart) and I'd heard they were running classes on Saturday mornings for beginners so off I marched one weekend, fresh-faced and full of resolve.
A little bell tinkled when I entered the shop. The proprietor was serving another customer. I stood like a gom in the middle of the floor, afraid to touch anything in case I broke it (in a wool shop) and waited for them to notice me. They seemed to be wearing matching hairbands. "I'm looking for something a little stronger" her customer said, "a Margaret Thatcher blue, if you know what I mean". She said it like she was laying down a gauntlet. Yer woman had her measure though, and handed her some balls that put a little moué on her mush and made her flounce for her purse. "And for you?" she asked as she closed the till. I was still standing there afraid to touch anything without permission. I froze, cowed by her conversation with the Thatcherite and feeling hopelessly out of my depth (again, in a wool shop). "I'm going to get my nana to teach me to knit!" I announced, with all the pride and exclamation of a five-year-old child. I'm 29. "What do I need?" I added, somewhat redundantly, as she pointed out some balls of thick thick wool and handed me two chunky-ass needles. "Try a scarf".
I bought three balls and trotted on over to Harold's Cross, feeling positively bohemian with my bagful of wool. I convinced myself as I walked that Nana would be only fucking delighted to impart her knowledge to me and have me take up where she left off when the arthritis began to gnarl her fingers. Not literally, though. She was probably working on something really complicated.
Her face was a picture when I announced after lunch that she was to teach me to knit. She looked gutted. "Would you not get your mammy to teach you?" No, Nana, you're far more indulgent. Ten minutes in I had mastered a plain stitch. She offered to teach me purl too, but that would have been too much all at once. So she sat and watched me knit up about half a ball, fidgeting at the awkward way I held the needles. After about half an hour she grudgingly congratulated me (with a little prompting) on being a wonderful student. "We'll all be getting nice thick scarves for Christmas, from a nice thick!" She chuckled to herself, delighted with her joke. And then "What made you pick the colour?"
It's a custardy, mustardy yellow. Rolled around the needle, it looks like corn on the cob.
"Will Andrew mind you knitting?" she asked. "Some men do". She didn't expand on this so I have no idea what she was getting at. I said I didn't think so, but that I'd ask. He just laughed and said "only if we end up staying in to watch the Late Late on a Friday". And then "What made you pick the colour?"
"Does Andrew knit himself?" she asked later, perhaps thinking that like cricket, it's just something that Protestants do. "Some of the best knitters are men, you know." I took her word for it and told her that no, he doesn't but that I was sure he'd wear the things I'll knit for him. "That must be love" she giggled, eyeing up my handiwork.
I come from a long line of crafty women. My mother is a seamstress (currently making a dress for me to get married in) and her own mother is an accomplished knitter. Mam has tried over the years to teach me how to sew, but her efforts have all been in vain (I lack natural aptitude and any inclination to apply myself). I still go behind her back to have my dad sew on my loose buttons.
Being able to sew would be great, I think, and I imagine that if I really wanted to I could be Vivienne Westwood, only cuddly and with less makeup. But I'm lazy, and too chubby for haute couture.
So instead of persevering, losing weight and learning to cut cloth, I decided I'd learn how to knit. I think it might be a manifestation of my "oh fuck I'm getting married and I need to start doing grown-up stuff" crisis (November 2009-Present). If I am someday to become a mother, I want to be able to punish my children by dressing them in ill-fitting striped tea-cosies.
A new wool shop has opened in Rathmines called Knit 'nd Make (the 'nd breaks my heart) and I'd heard they were running classes on Saturday mornings for beginners so off I marched one weekend, fresh-faced and full of resolve.
A little bell tinkled when I entered the shop. The proprietor was serving another customer. I stood like a gom in the middle of the floor, afraid to touch anything in case I broke it (in a wool shop) and waited for them to notice me. They seemed to be wearing matching hairbands. "I'm looking for something a little stronger" her customer said, "a Margaret Thatcher blue, if you know what I mean". She said it like she was laying down a gauntlet. Yer woman had her measure though, and handed her some balls that put a little moué on her mush and made her flounce for her purse. "And for you?" she asked as she closed the till. I was still standing there afraid to touch anything without permission. I froze, cowed by her conversation with the Thatcherite and feeling hopelessly out of my depth (again, in a wool shop). "I'm going to get my nana to teach me to knit!" I announced, with all the pride and exclamation of a five-year-old child. I'm 29. "What do I need?" I added, somewhat redundantly, as she pointed out some balls of thick thick wool and handed me two chunky-ass needles. "Try a scarf".
I bought three balls and trotted on over to Harold's Cross, feeling positively bohemian with my bagful of wool. I convinced myself as I walked that Nana would be only fucking delighted to impart her knowledge to me and have me take up where she left off when the arthritis began to gnarl her fingers. Not literally, though. She was probably working on something really complicated.
Her face was a picture when I announced after lunch that she was to teach me to knit. She looked gutted. "Would you not get your mammy to teach you?" No, Nana, you're far more indulgent. Ten minutes in I had mastered a plain stitch. She offered to teach me purl too, but that would have been too much all at once. So she sat and watched me knit up about half a ball, fidgeting at the awkward way I held the needles. After about half an hour she grudgingly congratulated me (with a little prompting) on being a wonderful student. "We'll all be getting nice thick scarves for Christmas, from a nice thick!" She chuckled to herself, delighted with her joke. And then "What made you pick the colour?"
It's a custardy, mustardy yellow. Rolled around the needle, it looks like corn on the cob.
"Will Andrew mind you knitting?" she asked. "Some men do". She didn't expand on this so I have no idea what she was getting at. I said I didn't think so, but that I'd ask. He just laughed and said "only if we end up staying in to watch the Late Late on a Friday". And then "What made you pick the colour?"
"Does Andrew knit himself?" she asked later, perhaps thinking that like cricket, it's just something that Protestants do. "Some of the best knitters are men, you know." I took her word for it and told her that no, he doesn't but that I was sure he'd wear the things I'll knit for him. "That must be love" she giggled, eyeing up my handiwork.
