Have you ever heard wool scream? No, neither have I. Wool can’t scream, that would be crazy. It doesn’t have a larynx. But do you think it might, now I’ve mentioned it, if it had all the requisite squishy bits? Perhaps whimpering a little as it is curved around the needles, points gleaming in the half light from a (admittedly slightly dusty) faux-Gothic chandelier as they grab at the struggling strands?
You may call me mad (although I would like to point out this is not a diagnostic term), even a bit of a psychopath (which is). I am not a psychopath, precisely because of the fact I think of wool screaming, not people. The reason I don’t think of people screaming is because I knit. When the urge to think of people rises in my mind (like contemplating offering assistance to Bob-From-The-Office to do something unnatural with his large pile of ‘urgent’ reports), and once my patience begins to wane, I knit one, pearl two. The red mist subsides. Bob-From-The-Office lives to frustrate another day.
I knit. A lot. But, to paraphrase a poet, ’tis better to have knit and not lost it, than to have never knit at all because you’re doing 20-to-life for murder. So to all the psychopaths out there, the frustrated, the aggravated, the disaffected, this blog is for you. This is to help you reach for knitting needles instead of throats, and to (imaginatively, at least) hear the screams of wool rather than work colleagues/neighbours/family/random strangers (delete as appropriate). I have found it useful. Soothing even. And it means I can relax my otherwise demanding nature into to a single request.
Don’t interrupt my knitting.