Eight or so years ago, my social conscience uncharacteristically flared up and I decided to knit garments for a charity called Knitting for Melbourne’s Needy. I chose a cheery red yarn and a pattern for a man’s jumper (amateur psychological assessment: vicarious boyfriend knitting), knitted steadily for a few weeks, and nearly finished it. Then I downed sticks. I can’t remember why; I expect some less worthy project caught my fancy.
Obviously the cold and homeless people of Melbourne (or indeed anywhere) really need to rely on someone less dilettantish than me. So for reasons of guilt, this is my next target. It’s one thing not finishing projects for oneself, but I do feel rather ashamed not to have finished this one.
I was quite surprised to find the pattern stored in the same place as the jumper. Such logic and foresight so long ago boded well, I thought. Encouraged, I resolved to unearth the rest of the wool and also to organise my stash of yarn. I sorted it mostly by colour but occasionally by intended project, and in the end was appalled by both the extravagant amounts I've bought, and the pointless odd and ends I've saved in the name of frugality – dozens of old ball bands, broken needles and 20-centimetre scraps of yarn. Hey, you never know when they might come in handy! And if they don't, I'm getting in solid practice for a mad old age spent compulsively hoarding crap.
This is the damage:
Obviously the cold and homeless people of Melbourne (or indeed anywhere) really need to rely on someone less dilettantish than me. So for reasons of guilt, this is my next target. It’s one thing not finishing projects for oneself, but I do feel rather ashamed not to have finished this one.
I was quite surprised to find the pattern stored in the same place as the jumper. Such logic and foresight so long ago boded well, I thought. Encouraged, I resolved to unearth the rest of the wool and also to organise my stash of yarn. I sorted it mostly by colour but occasionally by intended project, and in the end was appalled by both the extravagant amounts I've bought, and the pointless odd and ends I've saved in the name of frugality – dozens of old ball bands, broken needles and 20-centimetre scraps of yarn. Hey, you never know when they might come in handy! And if they don't, I'm getting in solid practice for a mad old age spent compulsively hoarding crap.
This is the damage:
 |
| Unfortunately for me, it looks three times as big in real life |
And this is only from the two most accessible yarn repositories in my flat. There's more. Much more. Plus this is just the yarn itself, not the unfinished projects. Oh, kill me now.
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