Everyone has their limits.
For example, some folks swear that they can’t knit drunk, whereas I’ll happily plod away at colourwork whilst sipping Chablis. However I do know from bitter experience that I can’t work complex lace whilst angry. (I was debating with a member of my extended family about a subject that was dear to my feminist principles. Afterwards, precisely nobody was converted to the other’s viewpoint and the entire collar of my jumper needed frogging and re-knitting. Sigh. Lesson learned.) And as of a few nights ago, I do also know that I can’t take decent photos of knitting in darkened pubs after drinking half a bottle of wine. So, what was – in my inebriated imagination – going to be a sophisticated gallery of works-in-progress at Knit Night, is actually a wobbly assemblage of drunken blur. Sorry.
So yes, it was Knitting-And-Crochet-Night, and once the twinnage were in bed, I hurried over the road to the pub (because I still haven’t discovered the entrance to the ancient tunnel that allegedly joins the cellar of our ex-brewery home to the pub’s basement). Sometimes the group is largish, sometimes it’s smallish, and sometimes we don’t meet at all. On this occasion, there were only two of us, but that was fine. Would you like to see the gorgeous entrelac hat my friend was working on? Don’t worry, I got her permission to do this:-
Isn’t it beautiful, especially in those shimmery jewel-like tones?
Anyway, on this particular occasion, there was also… another knitting group in the pub, seated around a table on the opposite side of the room. We tried not to look as though we were looking at them. We’d heard rumours of this other group, you see, and so we knew they’d pitch up some time. (Why is writing these words giving me images of a stand-off in the Wild West?)
We were surrounded and outnumbered, and we knew it. Sources had informed us that they were members of the Women’s Institute. (I realize that most people reading this aren’t in the UK, so I should explain that members of the WI do good works for charity and also take their clothes off.) On this occasion, they were all knitting Twiddlemuffs.
We saw them. They saw us. We knitted. They knitted. We drank. They drank.
And d’you know what the most blimmin’ irksome thing was??!
The most frustrating thing was that when the enormous yarn-gulf across the room was eventually breached and the two groups began to talk to each other, the WI posse turned out to be thoroughly lovely, fun people. DO YOU REALIZE HOW HARD IT’S GOING TO BE TO MAKE A DECENTLY AMUSING ANECDOTE OUT OF THAT?! So I can’t even tell you any stories about knitting needles being brandished in a menacing manner. And nobody tipped Eucalan in anyone else’s drink. Not a single clothes-moth was sneakily concealed in anyone’s project bag, and not a soul haughtily denounced a rival’s yarn as ‘uncommonly scratchy’. There were not even any snide mutterings about how people who use straights/circulars (delete as appropriate) are mad/bad/dangerous-to-know (delete as appropriate), despite the fact that the WI posse were all on straights, and we were both on circulars.
See? Very pleasant evening. TOTAL FRICKIN’ DISASTER on the anecdote front. We came, we saw, we chatted. And whilst we didn’t quite get as far as merging, I hope we’ll run into them again.
Oh, and in case you want to see what I was knitting, it’s here. I couldn’t bring the crochet cauliflowers to the pub, so I got on with some work on designing this bag. Fairisle mitred corners in-the-round, I’ll have you know:-