I was having a think on my walk home today and I realised it is about a year since I started knitting! In that time I haven't really churned out a huge amount of items. I started to wonder if I could really call myself a knitter when I haven't created a jumper or a cardigan. I've a few scarves to my name, a pair of gloves, a few hats, a couple of pairs of socks. Can you claim to be something when you aren't prolific at it. I'm not sure.
Then I thought some more, I decided that knitting for me isn't so much about the finished product it is about the doing. I like having something to do when I am watching television, something to do whilst chatting with G, something to occupy my time and fingers with on lengthly train journeys and commutes. I don't think I ever intended to be the type that turned out fair isle by the mile or jumpers by the dozen. I believe I just wanted to be proficient at it. I suppose that is why I like socks.
Nice and compact. They take up very little space and yet they are satisfying. I'm not a quick knitter, I plod along at an alarmingly slow pace until I near the end and then I sprint to the finish staying up till all hours to graft a toe just so it can be done. They are the ultimate in travel knitting. Have sock will travel.
I adore the variety of the wool that is available for them too. This self stripping stuff is simply the stuff of dreams. The perfect Anne of Green Gables knitting because you never know what is around the next bend in the road. The colours are shocking and most unlike my wardrobe which mainly consists of black and more black. I like walking to work and looking down and seeing a flash of brightness on my ankle, a glimmer of cheerful sunlight on a grey morning. The satisfaction of pulling them on and knowing they are all my own work.
