With Apologies To WH Auden

There isn’t much in knitting that scares me. I can k3togtbl, I can cut a steek whilst stone-cold sober, and I laugh in the face of complex colourwork (unless it’s intarsia, in which case I sigh and then untangle all 76 bobbins for the eleventy millionth time). But today, I’m anxious.

You see, I’ve finished the book-blanket that I designed and made for my dear friend Mary, and yesterday I wrapped it up and took it to the Post Office. Quick summary in case you missed the original post: Mary has just had major surgery, and she wisely planned to spend her recuperation surrounded by all her books, reading for day after day. But her house can get chilly, so she agreed that I could make her a blanket. Here’s the result:-

But now, I’m worried, because WHAT IF SHE DOESN’T LIKE IT?! No please, hear me out. Mary is a woman of taste, and she knows exactly what she likes and what she doesn’t like. I’m not sure which side of the fence this blanket will fall. The yarn is Stylecraft Special Aran With Wool, by the way, and it’s very cosy and snuggly.

So I took the package to the Post Office. No, I told the nice woman behind the counter, the parcel didn’t contain anything of notable monetary value. (But…) She tossed it on the pile of mail beside her, and I silently wondered whether she was knitworthy.

By the time I got home, the blanket was probably in a bright red van on its way to the sorting office. By the time I was lying awake in the middle of the night thinking about it, it was probably on a train, speeding over the Severn Bridge as it crossed into Wales. And so, it being 3.00 in the morning, I started thinking about that famously rhythmic poem by WH Auden, which I’m sure you’ll agree is a very 3am sort of thing to do:-

This is the night mail crossing the border,

Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,

The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder,

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder.

Snorting noisily as she passes

Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,

Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;

They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no-one wakes,

But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

Postal orders? Pah! Contactless credit cards more like. So, it being 3am, as I said, I started inventing a little update…

This is the night mail crossing the border,

Bringing the bills and the eBay order.

Brochures for the rich, junk-mail for the poor,

The vape-shop on the corner, the students next door.

Slowing near Cardiff, losing time;

Electrification would help this line.

On wonky rails – I could’ve told her,

This rolling-stock is getting older.

Honking loudly as she passes

Smokers outside, clutching glasses.

The town still throbs as she approaches,

Watched by sneaking rats and roaches.

The urban fox can’t turn her course,

He sniffs the bins, decides to pause.

In the flats she passes, some bloke sleeps,

Whilst the phone on his night-stand rudely beeps.

Um, yes, anyway. That’s the sort of thing my brain gets up to at 3.00 in the morning, in case you were wondering… which you probably weren’t. Sorry, WH Auden.

And now it’s a new day and Mary might, just might, have received her blanket this morning.

I wonder why I feel so tired today…