I don’t knit things for myself very often. I jokingly think of knitting for myself as ‘selfish knitting’. This stems from the fact that, for some reason, whenever I get the commonly asked question: “who are you knitting that for?” I feel a pang of selfish guilt as I sheepishly reply “myself…” I’ve never known why this is: I’m perfectly entitled to knit for myself, but it’s just a feeling I get.
I always want to knit things for myself (I have a Ravelry queue that probably extends beyond my lifetime), but instead I seem to fall into a familiar pattern of knitting gifts for friends and family each year; starting slowly at first, then knitting steadily through the summer months before building up to a pre-Christmas knitting frenzy each year.
I like it this way, so I’m not complaining. I like gifting my knits to people: knowing that I’ve given something unique and handmade, that I’ve spent hours working on; carefully devoting my time to each stitch with someone specific in mind. To me, there’s no gift more personal or thoughtful than that. Whenever I can’t think of that perfect present, I can always think of something to knit.
However, after several years of predominantly gift-knitting, culminating in a whole year dedicated to knitting for my wedding last year; I decided that this year – 2016 – would be my year. I vowed to spend the year knitting things for myself.
The year I learned to knit mittens, I got a bit carried away and decided to knit mittens for everyone. As the months passed, mittens were produced from many corners of my life: lazy and leisurely rows knitted from the comfort of home; stolen stitches in spare moments during a wonderful week on Orkney; three weeks of knitting my way round India, needles clacking quietly in time with the sound of trains on tracks as we meandered round the country via the vast Indian Railway network; and last minute rows knitted in a cosy London pub on the bank of the Thames in the days leading up to Christmas.
By the time Christmas arrived, I had seven pairs of mittens (plus two hats, and a Chihuahua jumper), each with their own story and eagerly waiting to warm the cold hands of friends and family members in the midst of the Scottish winter.
Satuday was Yarn Shop Day: a day dedicated to celebrating everything that’s great about your local bricks-and-mortar yarn shop. Now in it’s third year, the day is promoted by Let’s Knit magazine as a campaign to support independent knitting shops across the UK.
Meet Doug the Caterpillar. He’s my draught excluder friend, and is one of very few finished projects that I’ve actually kept for myself. I knitted him a few years ago and he still has pride of place in our hallway; perched right at the entrance to the house, waiting to snuggle up next to our front door and keep the place cosy.
The problem with a new blog is knowing where to start. I’ve been knitting for a good few years now, even if I’ve not been writing about it; so my head is a tangled mess of woolly thoughts and projects, past and present, all at the tips of my fingers as they hover over my keyboard, ready to spill out on to the page. It feels a bit like the ridiculously long queue of projects I’ve got lined up on Ravelry: every time I look I feel overwhelmed by all the woolly loveliness and I don’t know where to turn first. Maybe if I quit my day job and knit at full speed for the next 50 years, I’ll get to the bottom of it one day.
Anyway, when giving this some thought my mind kept wandering back to the same project: my wedding. This isn’t a surprise really – not only was it a significant milestone in my life, but the knitting that surrounded my wedding escalated to fairly epic proportions. It’s my biggest knitting project, having completely dominated my knitting world for most of 2015.
As I suspect is the way with many young girls in Scotland, I was originally taught to knit by my Granny around the age of five. We sat side by side on the couch in her small, cosy living room whilst she patiently took me through the motions of the knit stitch. It was just one activity of many offered in attempt to entertain an only child as the painstakingly long days of the summer holidays stretched out ahead of us both.