Gazing up at the shelves, I muttered to myself "Knitting or crochet?" They both seemed as impossible to master as the other to me.
Let me explain.
My name is Lucy. I’m 36 and I’m an alcoholic. Well, no. Actually I’m an inveterate gambler. It’s sort of like being an alcoholic only instead of craving the heady taste of alcohol, I crave the adrenaline kick from risking everything on a game of chance. That said, I wouldn’t say no if you offered me a nice, cool glass of something with a hint of lemon juice and juniper berry. But I digress. What does all this have to do with the art of winding wool around a stick creatively I hear you ask.
Yes. Well.
As I said in the beginning, I like to gamble and when I say gamble I don’t just mean popping down to the corner shop and buying a lottery ticket every week, or sitting in a booth with a bunch of pensioners listening whilst some chocolate voiced smoothie calls out a steady stream of made up number nicknames. No I mean proper gambling. The sort that leads to all night games of cards in darkened, smoke filled rooms and standing in run down bars, shouting till you’re hoarse, at small molluscs as they slide across increasingly sticky tables. The sort that means your purse is always empty but you still can’t resist saying how much, when somebody says I bet.
Anyway, I’m rambling again.
To get back to the reason I found myself standing in the local newsagents, drawing sidelong glances from those patrons who were silently perusing the shelves and scowling at my vociferousness as if we were in a library. It was of course, due to a bet.
As well as having a brain quick enough to work out the odds of a piece of toast landing butter side down before it hits the pristine carpet, I like to think of myself as a bit of a crafter. I’ve tried my hand at various artsy projects over the years and although my family would probably point out that I have yet to finish any of them, consider myself quite the expert. To be honest, it is rather relaxing sitting threading beads onto wire or creating pictures from silk thread or quilled paper, and I find daubing paint onto canvas can be quite cathartic after a bad day at the races. However, although I have found the time to dabble in a variety of such pastimes, I have studiously avoided anything that might be considered to be remotely useful. Decorative yes, well, maybe, but of use. No.
Until now that is. I find I have the need to make a christening shawl and only have two months left in which to do so or I will not only lose face at my book club but also loose the ten pound wager I have been stupid enough to agree to with the chairwoman.
This brings me back to the magazines I found myself so keenly perusing the other day. Knitting or crochet. Both seemed like arcane arts to me and flipping through pages filled with ‘ply’s’, ‘gauge’s’ and ‘tension’s’ not to mention strange symbols and unreadable patterns, I did not have the first idea where to start. The omens for a favourable outcome were not looking good at all. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath, did an imaginary eeny meeny and before I could think too deeply was standing back outside, clutching the glossy beginnings of a brand new challenge.
So, this is where I find myself at present. Hook and now off white yarn in hand, staring down at a jumbled gathering of assorted holes and wondering if I will have the dedication to start again once I have unravelled the whole sorry mess for, what must be, at least the tenth time so far. Gritting my teeth I picture myself sheepishly handing over a crisp ten pound note and curse inwardly. I will not lose a bet to that bookish, overbearing, smug grandmother to be just because she also happens to be my sister and knows my track record when it comes to this sort of thing. The fact that she manages to knit for the entire neighbourhood too, doesn’t even come into it. No. This time I will do it. I will prove to myself and everyone else that I can compete a whole project and there will be a beautiful and useful item at the end of it.
With a sigh I look down, taking in the sorry sight in my lap. It is not good. Even if I manage to unpick all the knots and rearrange the holes into something that resembles the picture in the well-thumbed magazine, the wool is getting frayed and looks more than a little grey. A traitorous thought crosses my mind and I quickly cast it aside. No, I couldn’t. My fingers reluctantly pick at a hole. Or Could I? Placing the ruined work on the small coffee table before me I rise slowly to my feet, mind racing, heart beginning to thump loudly in my ears. Dare I risk it? Well, if I put it like that…
I walk to the door, picking up my handbag on the way, a glance at my watch showing I still have time if I don’t tarry. Mind finally made up I leave the house, get into the car and head off to a small place I have recently discovered on the outskirts of town.
I’m in luck, the shop is still open and there in the window, draped artistically over a small wooden crib is exactly what I remember seeing yesterday. A beautiful, snow white, crocheted shawl with the words, ‘Hand Made’ written on a tag that also reads £25. I smile happily, pushing open the door, purse already in hand. Who cares that it will cost much more than the original bet, especially taking into account the magazine, wool and hook already bought. It’s the winning that counts. Yes?
Reply With Quote
