And there I was, merrily seaming up the beanie I’d made for Boy.
I’d matched everything carefully and I was working on the flat and everything, doing my ladders as close as I could so that the finished beanie would keep Boy’s head warm in the snow. And wouldn’t you know it, I got to the top of the ribbing and it didn’t jolly well match! By about SIX ROWS. I was somewhat despondent about that but I did the right thing. I unpicked it. It’s still sitting there, very, Very, VERY carefully pinned. I just have to have another glass of brandy and – oh. Do you think that might be the problem?
I was musing about different sorts of seams today as a woman walked across the road in front of me at the tram stop. She was wearing stripy tights and, well, you know, the stripes were straight on one leg but not the other. It took me right back to seamed stockings. I’m old enough to remember them. I hated them. Stockings were bad enough but seamed ones? I’d end up with my head halfway round to my back trying to get the wretched things straight. No amount of mirror or care ever did the trick. And I’d probably just get them as straight as I was ever going to and my darling Dad would make a comment about how they weren’t quite straight. It’s genetic, I’m convinced of it – I remember my Mum’s stocking seams being as straight as if she’d ruled them! – but the gene passed me by.
I couldn’t help thinking, however, as I watched this woman today, that my slight mismatch of the ribbing was probably something that nobody else would have even noticed. Yes, they would have. I know they would have, even with perfectly all right part of the brim rolled up over it. And anyway, I’d have known.