Maybe the only thing my sister and I have in common is our love of vintage knitwear.
Not that we have any taste. I’ve just started reading one of Gail Carriger’s novels (rollicking romps across nineteenth century London with extra dirigibles) in which the main character has no soul and, therefore, no fashion sense…and I am a little worried about me and my sister.
We love horrible things. Terrible, textured, awful things that could make angels weep.
On Saturday we went on a little adventure to Headington a town with a shark in a house and more charity shops than you can shake a stick at. In the back of one of these shops we found a basket of old knitting patterns hidden away under a shelf.
We sat on the floor and went through them all, cooing over the hairstyles and sleeves and the poses and lamenting the fact that modern pattern books seem to only show models in weird and elaborate scenes – holding fancy drinks or laughing in an apple tree or digging a ‘flowerbed’ to hide the suspicious bundle at their feet. I eventually settled on five of the patterns and went to the counter.
The woman at the counter looked at me, looked at the patterns, looked at me again and narrowed her eyes in vicious suspicion.
“You’re not going to MAKE these, are you?”
“Oh yes, I hope so.”
“Hrump.” This is the noise she made. If you say it out loud, exactly as I’ve written it, you can make that noise too. Don’t forget to frown as you make it.
I call this a successful haul. I’m not totally sure about the shape of the blue 1980s(?) number but we’ll see. You never know when the urge to dress up as a sailor-orphan will strike. I’m totally sold on the flowery Tyrolean thing. My sister has asked for this one for Christmas.
If she’s lucky, she might even get it.