Jemima’s sleeve is finally finished. It’s been a bit of an uphill struggle for a number of reasons. First up, my brain. Last night while watching Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon I sailed merrily on past the 48cm I was supposed to be reaching, and had to rip back a lot. Today I seem to have lost the ability to count, which helps.
Then there’s the yarn. This is what happened to my ‘centre pull’ ball.
See the knotty piece piece of road kill draped over my chair? Next time I’m going to try the Nostepinne technique rather than a loo roll.
But I think there’s a bit more to it than my unfailing ability to lower the tone. Anna wrote a few days ago about ‘Cardigans that speak to me about childhood, West Wittering, ancestry, orchards. Clothes with superpowers stitched in.’ It’s a feeling that permeates her blog and I should have listened. The jumper I wanted to knit was whimsical and wistful, a jumper that loves wild flowers and Georgette Heyer and is certainly not grey.
So I chose this grey yarn and it doesn't want to be Jemima. This yarn is stern, even prim. It wants to be a decent, upstanding garment, worn to the library and home again on a bicycle with a wicker basket. It wants to read George Eliot and certainly be knit at its correct gauge. This yarn, in short, has told me quietly and clearly it wishes to become a cardigan.
Jemima is on hold for a little while. Back soon.