The Art of Knitting

                                                

My grandma taught me to knit when I was about 11 years old and I took to it like a sheep to the field ... I knitted from then on, for my kids and their kids and then I stopped.   I was done with knitting for several years.

In 2009 whilst in Bakewell, Derbyshire I happened upon a bookshop sale and purchased a book at a snip of a price called Designer Knitting with Kitty Bartholomew ... An American, she and her teenage daughters modelled the sweaters and cardigans and she seemed like a bit of a rule-breaker and I found her an inspiration.  

Overnight I became a "born-again" knitter.   I realised that I could knit with anything - yarns of course, but also stripped-down sheets and duvets, shirts from charity shops, string and polythene bags.   There seemed no end to the fun to be had by knitting and also creating your own patterns and not following someone else's rules.

                                            

Bathroom, playroom rugs knitted from old sheets.

In April of 2010 I started a community creative knitting group in Poynton called The KnitGirls .... there were about half a dozen of us and we met in the local pub The Vernon Arms.   We have just celebrated our two years together and are now about 25 in number.   When we're seen clacking away as we talk, laugh and have a drink together I think others recognise that with the resurgance of interest in knitting, the amazing yarns to be found and the fabulous patterns and inspired invention of knitters that the image of rocking-chair grannies with pinc-nez and little tight bun in the nape of the neck should now be dispelled!

Within our KnitGirls group at present there are those who are knitting intricate lace patterns, cable sweaters, trendy baby gear and several of us entwined in red, white and blue wool as we produce mounds of bunting to decorate the shops in our village for the Jubilee celebrations in June.

Last autumn whilst in New England with my family, I was so happy to have the pleasure of teaching my own grandchildren how to knit .... Elias, then 5 years old was captivated by the process and then his sister India knitted her own headband .... next there was Pandora and Ivy and some of their friends.  It was a precious time for me.     

                                

I now knit on public transport, in the car (not when I'm driving), at the seashore, in waiting rooms wherever - I'm into extreme knitting and totally proud of the art!   Apart from the pleasure of creating something lovely, the therapy of knitting should not be underestimated .... there has never been a day since that 2009 "born-again" moment when I have not picked up my needles and got caught up in that rhythm of knit one, purl one .... it helps to calm me down, gives me time to think more clearly and creates a happiness within - you should try it .....

The Doll

I was a pathetically girlie-girlie sort of child
I sang songs, made up dances, performed shows.
I loved my dolls and my pram - adored dressing up.

My favourite doll, Barbara, heavy and made of crock
was about twelve inches high - stout
sturdy arms and legs.
The limbs jointed and held in place within her torso
by hooks and strong rubber bands.
Yes, Barbara, was almost unrecognisable by the standards
of today's pneumatic plastic forms.

                                       

For a start
Barbara was a strange colour
Think American-Tan meets deep pink rouge
No lovely blonde nylon tresses.
Her short wavy hair was engraved upon her head.
No open and shut eyes
but painted-on eyes of china-doll blue
and carved eyebrows.
Her rather appealing mouth was etched in deep rose.

At least once, Barbara was taken to the
Birmingham Dolls Hospital for surgery -
broken limbs; too much doting attention.

In the post-war years much cared for toys
weren't simply replaced;
They were lovingly repaired.

On my leaving home at eighteen
barbara stayed with the family.
It seemed right.
She lay on my mother's bed -
Happy between the two pillows
and next to the satiny, quilted nightdress case.

She still wore the outfit - dress, knickers,
 bonnet, bootees knitted years previously
by Auntie Irene, my Godmother.

I was comfortable with that link to home
and although I said little
I always checked on Barbara on return visits.
I was content that there, she seemed happy.
I knew that, inevitably, in time,
she would come to live with me.

The one day she just wasn't there. ...

Where's Barabara? I asked mum
"Oh I gave her to Mrs So and So -
she has two grandchildren
and I thought they'd like her".

Of course, there was no malice aforethought -
that goes almost without saying.
So what was there for me to say.
I knew my sadness was disproportionate to my loss.
But I mourned the loss - which I do to this day.
I now have daughters
and they in turn, have their girls.

If I'm realistic, it's more than likely that a
heavy crock doll
would be of little interest to them.
But I'm not good at the reality game
And a lump forms in my throat as I recollect my happy hours
with Barbara.

I can only hope that her adopted
family treasured her as I did.



Saturday viewing - The Voice

                                         

I've never been a fan of the reality-talent-finder type show.   In fact I'm not too keen on any reality show preferring to watch some dark Scandinavian drama series such as the fabulous Borgen, The Killing or Wallander or the French-made Spiral  all of which with the English subtitles facilitate my increasingly cloth-eared state.  That will tell you something about me which may or may not be too healthy!

Whilst friends stayed with us over Easter they expressed an interest in watching The Voice as they had been following it for the last few weeks .... of course we went with it and this Saturday found, whilst on our own, a being drawn into The Voice .... this is what these shows do .... they insidiously get their tendrils around you and lo and behold you're caught up in the whole shebang and the next thing you know you're rooting like mad for Jaz Ellington!



Admittedly The Voice does have a preferable format to the X Factor/Pop Idol/Britains Got Talent routine whereby there was, to my mind, the indescribably awful build ups, deafening drum-rolling scene-setting, yawning moments of suspense and endless emotional sob-stories;  the contestants in this show are not known by name or seen by the judges and are assessed only by their voices alone.

But here's the thing ... the judges.   We have Danny O'Donague who I thought must be Feargal (The Undertones) Sharkey's much younger brother.   We have Will.i.am - a seemingly thoughtful and likeable black guy.   But now I must turn my attention to .... da-da drum roll ... the remaining two judges....  Firstly there is Tom Jones.   Well I think I'm in love.   Tom it seems has morphed into an utterly adorable, charming, sexy, mature man with an irresistible smile and laconic manner.   What happened to him?   Perhaps he is still the raunchy, thrusting performer at which middle-aged women feel compelled to launch their panties when he is singing but here there is no sign of the orange tan, the shoe-black hair or the overt sexuality. ... No, here we have a REAL man and I'm truly smitten.

                                    

 Then there is Jessie-J.   Now at this point I'm probably going to upset a lot of you ... but really isn't this woman whose speaking voice is pitched somewhere between Romford, Essex and the middle of the Atlantic ocean, just one of the most affected, camera-hogging, gobby women to be on TV short of Davina McCall?  "Oh no the camera's on me" as she waves her nail extensions underneath her false eyelashes in a mock-cry.   Let those who can sing - as I'm sure she does very well having sold 12-million records - sing.  BUT please don't let them loose to feed their egos on the unsuspecting public each saturday night.

                                                     

Oh well - it's the brilliant US Homeland on Sundays acted out by our very own Damian Lewis

                                                         

                           and as for Saturday evenings .... well there'll always be a good book to turn to.



Saturday viewing - The Voice

I've never been a fan of the reality-talent-finder type show.   In fact I'm not too keen on any reality show preferring to watch some dark Scandinavian drama series such as the fabulous Borgen, The Killing or Wallander or the French-made Spiral  all of which with the English subtitles facilitate my increasingly cloth-eared state.  That will tell you something about me which may or may not be too healthy!

Whilst friends stayed with us over Easter they expressed an interest in watching The Voice as they had been following it for the last few weeks .... of course we went with it and this Saturday found, whilst on our own, a being drawn into The Voice .... this is what these shows do .... they insidiously get their tendrils around you and lo and behold you're caught up in the whole shebang and the next thing you know you're rooting like mad for Jaz Ellington!

Admittedly The Voice does have a preferable format to the X Factor/Pop Idol/Britains Got Talent routine whereby there was, to my mind, the indescribably awful build ups, deafening drum-rolling scene-setting, yawning moments of suspense and endless emotional sob-stories;  the contestants in this show are not known by name or seen by the judges and are assessed only by their voices alone.

But here's the thing ... the judges.   We have Danny O'Donague who I thought must be Feargal (The Undertones) Sharkey's much younger brother.   We have Will.i.am - a seemingly thoughtful and likeable black guy.   But now I must turn my attention to .... da-da drum roll ... the remaining two judges....  Firstly there is Tom Jones.   Well I think I'm in love.   Tom it seems has morphed into an utterly adorable, charming, sexy, mature man with an irrisistible smile and laconic manner.   What happened to him?   Perhaps he is still the raunchy, thrusting performer at which middle-aged women feel compelled to launch their panties when he is singing but here there is no sign of the orange tan, the shoe-black hair or the overt sexuality. ... No, here we have a REAL man and I'm truly smitten.

Then there is Jessie-J.   Now at this point I'm probably going to upset a lot of you ... but really isn't this woman whose speaking voice is pitched somewhere between Romford, Essex and the middle of the Atlantic ocean, just one of the most affected, camera-hogging, gobby women to be on TV short of  Davina McCall ? "Oh no the camera's on me" as she waves her nail extensions underneath her false eyelashes in a mock-cry.   Let those who can sing - as I'm sure she does very well having sold 12-million records - sing.  BUT please don't let them loose to feed their egos to the unsuspecting public each saturday night.

Oh well - it's the brilliant US Homeland on Sundays acted out by our very own Damian Lewis

                                                         

                           and as for Saturday evenings .... well there'll always be a good book to turn to.