Socks Education

It may not look like much to the non-knitter, or even the more experienced wielder of sticks, but to your correspondent this strange wee garment marks triumph a year in the making.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

• Not actually the first of these that I've made, but the second; the initial one was given to Ms Three, who promptly put it on her doll's foot. So they're even recognisable to young children, which is gratifying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I say a year, and that's a little misleading. It's about a year since I first attemped to knit a sock, but my efforts in the time between then and now have been rather patchy*. That my last serious attempt at hosiery is sitting in a box in Canada, unsighted by me since late February, has not helped my cause. During this time, though, I have mastered four needles well enough to happily knit this way in public, quite some progress since my first ungainly stabs, which looked like nothing so much as a drunk octopus putting up a large tent in a stiff wind, unassisted. It's one of those skills only gained by dogged persistance. It's also one of those skills that sneak up on you: one day you're holding your mouth in bizarre twists and snapping at passers-by, the next you realise bloody hell, I'm doing it without thinking about it, or swearing, even. It's a beautiful thing.

So, the socks. Those who know me well will no doubt have noticed a tendency I have to latching on to seemingly random ideas and working furiously towards making them happen. Socks were one in that particular collection, a group which includes learning Photoshop, joining the Navy, juggling and making meringue. I just decided that it would be cool to make socks. And I'm still sure it is. I worked and worked at the damn things, but kept tripping up on one little word: turn. It appears often and inexplicably in sock patterns, and refers to shaping the rounded area that cradles the heel of the foot. I couldn't work out what the hell it meant, or if I thought I had, would produce a garment that might be a snug fit for, say, a can opener or an electric drill rather than a human body. I knitted and knitted and unravelled and knitted again. Then, cross-eyed, threw it all into a bag and made another scarf.

Recently, though, whilst browsing the fabulous Knitty** site, I found a pattern for The Training Sock, which cleverly only incorporates the essential and tricky elements of stocking manufacture in a compact and efficient object. Somehow, for some reason known only to Our Lady of the Needles, it clicked for me. I turned the heel. I picked up those damn instep stitches and made them into an arch. What joy is mine!

So celebrate with me, friends; it's simply a wee sock, but the pleasure in new skills hard-won and goals attained is truly a blessing, one of the great qualities of being human. But not quite so much that I'm willing to make a pair of socks for you. So don't ask.


*I mean, if I'd sat concentrating for that amount of time on any one thing without success then I'd be in need of some serious self-examination.

** Knitty is the home of the moderately infamous and totally wonderful knitted uterus.

Now You Know How I Felt

Or "how I fulled", I should say. I'm talking about wool that's been run through a hot wash, of course. Felting -- fulling is the correct term-- is the current production phase in the Factory Suzette, and it's rather entertaining.

How? Natural fibres, such as wool or mohair, have scales along the fibre shaft, which when subject to hot water swell and lift off the fibre surface. When friction is applied -- as in a washing machine, say -- these scales bind together, creating a dense and tight fabric, quite unlike the open and loose weave of conventional knitted fabric. Felting, quite simply, is an intentional, semi-controlled disaster: you knit something, you belt it around in hot water and light a candle to the deity* of your choice, praying for their favour.

• A variation on the "Marsupial Bag" from Stitch and Bitch.

Pre-wash length approximately 14 inches.

What? Only certain yarns will felt, so a test swatch is a worthwhile investment, unless you're a) ridiculously impatient b) have limitless money c) have limitless time. As mentioned earlier, wool and mohair are the prime contenders for fulling, due to the scaly surface of the fibre. Others such as silk, cotton or synthetic fibres have smooth surfaces, hence won't felt up at all. Some processed wool, such as "prewashed" wools, or certain colours (particularly lighter ones) often prove resistant to the persuasion of hot water. Test swatches. Need I say it again? Test swatches, every time.

• Post-wash, coming in at around ten and a half inches long.

Why? Because it's bloody fabulous, that's why! The whole process is exciting; the simple act of washing the article can transform it into something quite different altogether. The fabric is dense, too; no need to line bags, and it keeps the wind out where regular knitted fabric fails. And the surface itself has such an unusual quality, quite professional. I took the green bag pictured here out when meeting a friend for coffee yesterday, and she seemed astonished when I told her that I'd made it... and promptly told me her preferred colours and placed an order. Sometimes it's better to keep the bragging to yourself.


* You could do worse than start with Athena, who was a weaver and wool-worker, or Freya who spun.

And so it grows...

There's just too much to say to clog up just the one blog. This is the start of the expansion: the knitting blog. I guess it'll include other make-and-do entries as well.