A stitch in time

So, I’ve started knitting. Did I ever tell you my Granny has won prizes for her knitting? Perhaps I’ll do the same one day. Follow in her footsteps and produce a masterpiece so beautiful, so intricate, that it’s worthy not only of a Waterstones book voucher or a box of Malteasers but perhaps of its own cabinet at the V&A. For the record, I have no idea exactly what she won, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely that my creations will turn heads. Since starting work at Woman’s Weekly, I’ve made two cats, a pig and a steadily-growing strip of bunting. I’m proud of them all for varying reasons, the main one being this: I am far from a born crafter. Don’t believe me? I think I need to set the scene a little more.

Returning home from primary school with doodles of teachers and tissue paper collages, I was frequently told by my parents that I was the most artistic member of our immediate family. Given that my younger sister, now aged 21, still draws pigs the way I taught her aged 11, this is hardly surprising (sorry Althea...). So as a result of such misleading encouragement, I grew up with a somewhat inflated view of my artistic abilities. Every time I presented relatives with a hand-drawn thank you card, there were coos of gratitude. Every time I attempted a still life vase of flowers, my dubious watercolour was dutifully put on the fridge. Every time I used the miniature paintbox from a Christmas cracker to produce reindeer that looked like dogs or stick-man portraits of family members, they were received with beaming smiles. I’d also like to point out that this third event happened only last year.

So it will come as no surprise that secondary school was something of a rude awakening. I mean, it didn’t start off too badly. Regardless of the attainment grade (we won’t go there), I always received ‘A’ for effort and my parents displayed my full-sized paper-mache chicken with pride on the kitchen shelf. However, as the years marched on, the criticism became harsher. I say harsher, when perhaps I should say more realistic. My year eight ‘African jewellery’ that consisted of a single bead threaded onto some manky ribbon was met with raised eyebrows by a rather formidable teacher, whilst the sketch of my left hand holding a pencil merited a comment which has since become legendary among my friends: ‘C. It looked better last week before you painted it’. And the time I got an AA for my innovative sewing machine skills when I simply tie-dyed a Tesco t-shirt? I put that purely down to a dippy Textiles teacher who, when she wasn’t floating around in her loose-fitting kaftans, spent most of her time hiding in the materials cupboard.

But knitting, well, that’s a different skill entirely. Like many little girls, my granny taught me to make a scarf for my teddy bear, but I very quickly grew tired of the pastime, moving on after the thirteenth dropped stitch to bigger, more exciting things like turning the living room into a dog rescue centre. When the knitting craze swept through secondary school, I watched friends and peers with balls of wool in their trademark Jane Norman bags, yet brushed off any encouragement to have a go, preferring to busy myself playing Neopets in the library or writing the next school assembly.

And then, Woman’s Weekly changed my life. A bold statement, I hear you cry, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. Of course, I adored my job, but when the weekly makes and beautiful knitting patterns were displayed in conference, I couldn’t help feeling mildly unworthy. Why couldn’t I make novelty fruit and veg or turn my hand to a knitted Usain Bolt? Clearly, my fingers just weren’t quite fast enough.

When I was first invited to the Friday knitting club, I was skeptical to say the least. Well, not so much skeptical as embarrassed. Despite my granny’s teachings, I knew I’d have to start from scratch, but luckily for me (and with some very patient tuition!) I picked it up again much more quickly than I’d first anticipated. It wasn’t long until I was knitting on the train, in front of the TV, even on one occasion in the theatre, although when the house lights went down, I struggled significantly with my purl row. Safe to say, I was hooked. An addiction had unravelled.

As I sit with my ninth piece of bunting half-finished on my lap, I reflect on the days of sticky art tables and dyed orange fingers (the top marks Tesco project wasn’t without risk), I realise that this is perhaps the closest thing to crafty I’ve ever been in my life. Stuffed animals, bunting... What’s next for this intrepid knitting enthusiast? The other day, I found myself excited about a knitted cactus! And as I chat patterns with my granny and contemplate whether or not I’m capable of making myself a jumper without mismatching arm lengths and unintentional holes passed off as deliberate design decisions, I can’t help thinking one thing, and one thing only: I’ve been well and truly Woman’s Weekly-fied!