by T. S. Easton
Goats in the Machine – We investigate animal welfare in industrial yarn-making
Cable Knits – The Industry Minister Vince Cable puts down his red box and picks up his red yarn to show us what he can do
Jimmy Carr – The moon-faced comic has us in stitches
General Pattern – Our regular feature returns, bringing you this year’s four patterns you simply can’t do without
Happy as a pig in muck, I started flicking through. It’s not cheap, Knit! but in my view it’s the best knitting publication available, and the competition is stiff, let me tell you. The Knit! editorials are thought-provoking, rather than simply provocative. There are some highly investigative pieces too. The goat story was shocking, and last month they looked at child labour in the subcontinent, and the economic woes of the knitting-machine industry.
I was deeply involved in an article about ecological damage caused by industrial wool dyes when I heard a cry from the front of the store.
‘Bellend!’ My heart rate accelerated as I looked up to see Joz, Freddie and Gex heading towards me at pace. How could I have been so reckless, so casual? I was going to get busted.
Thinking on my feet, I shot out a hand and snatched a copy of Loaded off the shelf and jammed it inside Knit!
‘What’s this?’ Freddie asked, grabbing hold of the magazine. ‘Knit! You’re reading Knit!’
I winked and opened the magazine and showed him the copy of Loaded inside. He looked at me as if I was a loony.
‘Why’re you hiding that?’ he asked.
Gex and Joz peered over his shoulders to see what I was up to.
‘In case Mum comes in,’ I said. ‘She thinks it exploits young women.’
Joz looked puzzled. ‘In what way?’
Even Gex and Freddie looked a bit surprised by Joz’s question at that moment, which was good for me. I silently thanked Joz for being such an idiot.
‘Well, like that?’ I said, showing him a picture of a girl who looked like she might be both cold and uncomfortable, bent over the wooden chair as she was, in that warehouse.
‘Let’s see,’ Freddie said, craning to look. He shook his head. ‘You think that’s exploitation … ’
He grabbed another magazine off the top shelf and tore open the plastic bag it came in. Opening it at a particularly intimate spread, he jammed a finger at it and said, ‘That’s exploitation.’
So then we all had to look through all the dirty mags for half an hour until the manager came back from her break and told us to clear off. It’s not that I hate looking at that stuff but it gets a bit repetitive after a bit. And while they were there, examining each girl’s boob or bum with such thoroughness that they seemed to be hoping to find the solution to the Da Vinci Code, I found my eyes wandering down, to the copy of Knit! I’d sheepishly replaced, or over to the left, where I’d just noticed this month’s new knitting patterns had arrived.
I couldn’t wait to get home and crack on with the tank top.
24th September
I had a dream last night that I was up at the top of the Shard. I was in a dark office, after hours, just mooching around when something caught my eye. I looked at the window and saw there was a piece of paper on the outside, pressed against the glass by the wind. As I approached I realised it was a knitting pattern. But not just any knitting pattern. This was crazy, insanely complicated. I could make out enough of the detail to know that if I could just knit this pattern, all the way through, that something would happen. Something good. Things would be made complete. But it was just so complex. And how could I reach it, out there on the other side?
I heard something behind me and I turned to see Frank Lampard. He nodded and smiled.
‘Go on, Ben,’ he said in his Black Country lilt. ‘Go and get the pattern, mate.’
Then it all got a bit confused and it wasn’t Frank Lampard any more and I was on a spaceship about to crash-land and Molly was there wearing my cycling helmet and I can’t remember the rest.
But that must mean something, mustn’t it? About the knitting pattern? And Frank Lampard?
26th September
Finally gave Joz the edited text for Fifty Shades of Graham. We were in the common room, supposedly studying. The weather was crap. Icy rain outside.
Joz was really eager to see what I thought.
‘Thanks,’ he said breathlessly as he read through it. ‘This is brilliant!’
‘Let’s not go overboard,’ I replied.
‘I think we could really have something here,’ he went on, not to be discouraged.
‘Are you sure about the title?’ I asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ he replied, nodding furiously. ‘I read a book about it. How to get your self-published ebook to the top of the Kindle charts.’
‘And it suggested you blatantly rip off the title of another book?’
‘Yes. It’s about what search terms people put in.’
‘What do they put in? Clumsy rip-off of badly written sex book?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Fair enough.’
He looked at me and grinned. ‘Thanks for your help on this, Ben,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t do it without you.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said suspiciously.
‘No, really, I’m serious about this. I just want to be the best I can be.’
I put my hand on his shoulder and nodded. ‘You already are, Joz,’ I said. ‘You already are.’
‘Thanks,’ he said uncertainly.
‘It’s just … well … ’ I began, before tailing off.
‘Well what?’
‘It’s just … one of the central characters is called Graham.’
‘Yeah? It’s like Grey. Grey Am.’
‘I know why you chose it, I’m just not sure it’s very … sexy.’
‘Hey, you just stick to the editing, Brainiac, I’ll do the sexy.’
Anyway, that made me feel a bit sick so I went outside after that.
27th September
Tonight at knitting, Mrs Hooper told us that there will be an assessment in the course. Apparently if we complete it successfully we get a Certificate in Knitting Proficiency – Level 1. I’m used to this kind of thing. Everything’s tested these days. You can’t go thirty seconds at school without someone quizzing you on what you learnt twenty-five seconds before.
So the assessment is in two parts. There’s a brief written examination, which she says will be pretty simple, mostly multiple choice. The other thing is that we have to Complete a Garment of at Least Moderate Complexity. Extra credit is given if you design your own pattern.
I’m definitely going to create my own pattern. I now know what the Shard dream was about! I have some brilliant design in my head which is locked away just now but if I learn the right codes I can unlock it and access the pattern. I’m going to sit down tomorrow with some blank sheets and see what I can come up with. There’s no hurry, the garment doesn’t need to be finished until Christmas.
28th September
Dear Ben,
I’m pleased to let you know I have successfully re-arranged your Giving Something Back session with Mrs Frensham. Your first appointment is at 4.30pm on Monday 8th October. I have spoken to Mrs Frensham in person. She is expecting you and has promised she will not hurl haemorrhoid cream at you.
Best wishes
Claudia Gunter
West Meon Probation Services
29th September
Dad’s embarked on another mission to get me interested in football. He dragged me down to Hampton FC again today. The pitch is located about a mile out of town. They used to play on a pitch in the town centre but the council sold it to Tesco and the club moved out. There isn’t a tree for miles, it’s right on the edge of the South Downs and the wind comes howling up from the sea from October to April. The few supporters who can be bothered to come all the way out here sit together in a clump in the uncovered stand, like male emperor penguins protecting their eggs, waiting for the females to come.
Freddie wasn’t there, unfortunately, so I ended up having to make conversation with Dad while we watched Joe Boyle running rings around everyone else on the field.
‘He’d still be playing for Portsmouth if he hadn’t done his knee in,’ Dad said.
‘His knee looks all right to me,’ I said as Joe nutmegged a defender and slotted Hampton’s third goal. He turned and held out his arms like an aeroplane, a huge grin on his face. He looked like he was the happiest man in the world just then.
‘Go on, my son!’ Dad yelled, standing up and clapping.
‘All right, calm down, Dad,’ I said quietly.
‘He’s not so quick on the turn as he used to be,’ Dad mused. ‘It was a bad job; he was out for two whole seasons. No coming back from that, not at thirty-five.’
‘Shame,’ I murmured.
‘He’s doing all right,’ Dad said. ‘Doesn’t earn much now, but I heard he invested wisely while he was getting the big wages.’
‘His girlfriend’s nice,’ I said, a bit out of my depth and looking down at the front row, where Miss Swallow was sat.
‘Not half,’ Dad agreed, dragging his eyes away from Joe Boyle for a moment.
Miss Swallow was wearing an attractive roll neck top, quite loose. From where we sat, we could see just a hint of her modest cleavage. We sighed as one, then turned our attention back to the game.
‘Chelsea had a good win yesterday,’ Dad said.
‘How’d Lampard get on?’ I asked politely, but not caring.
‘Couple of near misses,’ he said, sounding slightly embarrassed. ‘But that’s the thing about Chelsea, someone’ll step up when they need to.’
‘Better a champion team than a team of champions,’ I said, feeling quite pleased with myself.
He nodded. ‘Fancy coming to watch them sometime? Up to London?’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said, my heart sinking. Last time he’d taken me to a game in London it hadn’t ended well. He’d forgotten I was with him in the pub afterwards. A fight had kicked off and he’d scarpered. I managed to get out eventually but was accidentally kicked in the face by a Man City fan.
But Dad is persistent, I’ll give him that. He promised he would ask his mate about some tickets for Chelsea.
‘That would be amazing,’ I lied. Football’s so dull. If only you could do something else while you were there. Like watch something more interesting, for example. Hmm, I wonder what would happen if I pulled out my knitting during the first half. I couldn’t do that to Dad.
Speaking of knitting, the tank top is coming along nicely. I was right to think it was a simple pattern. It’s taking a long time though, because the yarn is thin and I have to use tiny needles to get the tight weave. Tank tops aren’t supposed to be fluffy, they should be sheer and smooth to the touch. I think I was wise to go with a dark colour.
If only I could talk to Dad about knitting. Then I wouldn’t have to rely on clichés to make conversation with him.
Hampton 6, Haslemere 1.
1st October
My bike is in the shop for repairs, by which I mean it’s at Dad’s garage waiting for him to get around to fixing it. I may have seen the last of the bike this term, to judge by previous experiences having Dad fix it. He’s so cheap, why won’t he pay for me to get it repaired down at Evans’s?
‘Why don’t you pay?’ he said, when I suggested this.
‘I don’t have any money,’ I pointed out.
‘What about your pocket money?’ he said.
‘Dad, the last time you gave me pocket money John Terry was well-respected.’
‘So your mum doesn’t give you pocket money then?’
‘She sometimes lets me keep what she finds behind my ear,’ I told him.
‘And what’s that, usually?’
‘Fifty pence, maybe. Occasionally a pound. Sometimes not even money, just stuff she’s carrying around. Last week she gave me a dishwasher tablet.’
‘Well, then you should get a job,’ he said, exasperated.
‘When would I find time to work?’ I asked. ‘On Mondays I’m at Mrs Frensham’s, Thursday night I’m at kn— pottery. You have me helping at the garage on Saturdays. I’m supposed to be studying for AS levels this year.’
‘What about a paper round?’ he suggested. ‘Try getting out of bed a bit earlier.’
‘How am I supposed to deliver the papers without a damn bike!’ I shouted.
He stopped and turned to me, pointed a buttery knife. ‘You get yourself a paper round, and I’ll fix your bike for you, how’s that for a deal?’
‘Aaaargh!’ I yelled, before storming off to my room.
Mum’s away AGAIN. I feel uneasy when it’s just me and Molly and Dad around the house. I wish Mum would come back. We’re OK for a few days, the three of us. And I don’t mind Dad trying to do blokey things with me, not at first. But after a few days we start to really irritate each other and bicker. Mum smoothes all that stuff over, neatens everything up.
3rd October
I finished the tank top tonight. I’ve got to say, it looks amazing, and fits me perfectly.
4th October
Popped into Miss Swallow’s Pottery class before Knitting tonight as I needed some fresh clay for the ziggurat I’m pretending to make.
‘You promised me a photo of it ages ago,’ she remarked. ‘I’m intrigued, I must say.’
‘I’ve decided you have to wait until I’ve finished,’ I said. ‘I want it to be just right.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But it had better be good.’
For half a second I wondered about suggesting she came to my house to inspect it. Imagine that, having Miss Swallow in my bedroom, checking out my ziggurat. But of course I didn’t have the nerve.
‘Have you knitted anything so far?’ she asked, handing me a lump of clay in a plastic wrapper.
‘I knitted this,’ I said, indicating my tank top.
‘You knitted that?’ she asked, feeling the tank top, her fingers brushing lightly against my chest.
‘It’s brilliant! You’re amazing.’ She looked up at me and gave me one of her mega-smiles, and a close-up of her slightly imperfect teeth.
‘No, you’re amazing,’ I wanted to say.
Then a thoughtful look came over her face.
‘Look, I don’t suppose you’d knit one for me, would you? I’ll pay. How much, twenty-five pounds?’
‘You want a tank top?’ I asked.
‘Not for me, for my boyfriend.’
‘Oh,’ I said unenthusiastically.
‘It would need to be a bit bigger than that one,’ she said.
I nodded. So he’s huge and I’m tiny. Rub it in, why don’t you?
‘A lot bigger, in fact, around the chest.’
‘OK. Got it,’ I said a bit snappily. ‘Can you find out his chest measurement?’
‘Sure.’ She mega-smiled at me again, turning back to her pots. I was just shuffling out of the door, when she called my name.
‘Ben?’ she said. ‘I’ve just thought. You know I sell my pots on Etsy, don’t you?’
‘Um. Etsy?’
‘It’s a website. Like eBay, but specifically for people who make their own products,’ she said. ‘You should start up a page there. Sell your tank tops, and … anything else you make. People will pay for hand-made things, you know?’
‘I’ll check it out,’ I said, feeling a bit better.
After the encouragement Miss Swallow had given me, I showed Mrs Hooper the tank top. She was astonished.
‘Ben, you have a gift. Look at these tight purls, these could have been made by a knitting machine.’
‘Nah … ’ I began modestly.
‘Really, Ben. You have natural talent. You should be proud.’
She was still going on about my natural talent when I tried to leave after the class. I was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable. I haven’t had so much praise since I stopped wetting the bed.
‘Ben, I meant what I said before, about you having a na
tural talent,’ she said.
‘Now, this might not be of interest to you. And you might feel you don’t have the time, but the UK Knitting Championship is getting under way soon. They’re having regional heats, and there’s a junior category.’
‘Championship? Are you serious?’ I asked. ‘I’ve only just started.’
‘Ben, those patterns you designed, they are seriously impressive. Your technique is brilliant. You won’t have to take on anything complex, they’ll just be looking for basic weaves at the junior level. It’s about technique, pattern design and speed.’
‘So what, I just submit some pieces of work and they judge them?’
‘Yes, but there’s also a showcase event. You have to knit in a room with other contestants. You won’t know what the pattern is until the event itself, then you’re given two hours to complete.’
‘Like Masterchef?’ I thought about it.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Except without the TV cameras.’
‘But will anyone be watching?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She nodded. Like that was a good thing. ‘There’ll be a live audience.’
She gave me a brochure about the event which featured a rather uninspiring photograph of a group of round-shouldered knitters sitting in rows in a convention centre. They all looked like they could do with a few yoga classes.
I’d have to think about this. On the one hand, the idea really excited me. Proving myself against others my age. Challenging myself. And if I’m serious about maybe selling things on this website Miss Swallow told me about, then Winner of the UK Junior Knitting Championship, or even Finalist, would look good on the CV.
On the other hand, was I ready to go public? It would be hard to keep my knitting habit under my beanie should I achieve any kind of success.
Also, I was enjoying the quiet escape offered by the class. Did I really want to try and take that further? Surely this was about simple pleasures? Sitting with nice people, in a room, knitting garments that no one was likely to wear. Success might change all that, turn me driven and goal-focused. Did I really want to be the Frank Lampard of the knitting world?
