M and I were taking BART to San Francisco; modern art, playgrounds and cream puffs were on the agenda. This was to be a big day. I was mentally prepared to take my relationship with needles and yarn to the next level; with Joe Public as my witness, I had decided to occupy myself on the half hour journey with the production of blue square the second.
A cheery middle-aged gentleman got on the train at West Oakland, and squeezed into the seat opposite. It was apparent from the amused look on his face that his curiosity was going to have to get the better of him. It was a very short-lived struggle. As we hurtled into the Transbay Tube, he leaned over and smiled conspiratorially.
"How did you get into that?"
I was sheepish, but honest.
"Well, you see... I was drunk one evening..."
Knitting... the new rock 'n' roll? The new grey? The crack cocaine of the old woman? A rallying cry for the young? Now a craze sweeping the nation, like Pogs and the Macarena before it, knitting is very much the most fashionable pastime since foxhunting was made illegal. What am I doing here? I am a man. I am totally secure in my masculinity. I knit.
The Author
The Author (31) hails from Britain, and attributes his rediscovered affinity with wool, and all other things sheep-derived, to his Welsh ancestry. He lives in Riverside with no cats.
1 comment:
Excellent. Out and proud. :) As any good knitter should be.
Beware the BART floor though. It eats your needles, and if you drop one it will never be seen again.
Worse things could have come from drinking too much ehh?
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