The above is not my Shapely Diamond Dishcloth, by the way. The above example is considerably worse than mine – which is pretty bad, but at least kind of straight around the edges and a nice pale gold colour – and this is heartening.
I seem to have discovered dishcloths. Dishcloths, the use and knitting of, seem to be very popular in America and Canada, less so here. Here, we buy those blue J-cloths in packets of 25 and throw them away as we use them. Dishcloths have to be washed and used again, but they are eco-friendly, sustainable and all that. In America and Canada, I gather, you can buy medium cotton yarn in every supermarket. Here, you have a job even to find knitting wool on sale nowadays, let alone cotton. You have to get if off the internet.
Canadian Sister got me into dishcloths, which she was being forced to manufacture by the Seniors group she belongs to, on the grounds that dishcloths will sell whereas lime-green and purple crocheted elephants probably won’t. I must admit, for the longest time, as they say in Canada, I imagined a dishcloth to be something off-whiteish and holey. Maybe rather slimy; the sort of item I vaguely remembered lurking around Nan’s kitchen sink. People actually buy those?
However, I have since discovered that dishcloth cotton comes in many bright colours, including interesting many-hued varieties called ombres. Furthermore, they work. They are really good at washing dishes. And, as Canadian Sister pointed out, although they are technically dishcloths, what they are, in fact, are samplers of many different and exotic knitting stitches. They are an opportunity to transform yourself into an Advanced Knitter without too much wastage of wool, an opportunity to express your creativity and show off your skills.
So there is more to a knitted dishcloth than meets the eye.
Once bitten by the dishcloth-knitting bug, as is always the case with my rapidly passing obsessions, I just had to buy a book on it. The book is called Kitchen Bright Dishcloths and features pictures of perfect, unwobbly, square-rather-than-unexpectedly-rectangular dishcloths. Perfect dishcloths. One cat vomited over it, projectile-ly, almost immediately, and another cat decorated it with claw-marks overnight but hey – they were just expressing their creativity. The patterns are still readable.
The last one in the book – for good reason – is called Shapely Diamond – and it is a beast of a pattern, 65 lines long and every line different. I am operating at a disadvantage, also, in having to learn American/Canadian knitting terms. One I puzzled over for ages was yarn over (in this country, wool forward). My sister managed a transatlantic phone tutorial in the various kinds of yarn over and make one – with neither of us able to see what the other was describing. We don’t have Skype, or Facetime or whatever. Lucky we have known each other a long, long time and are sort of psychic.
Anyway, I thought I would attempt Shapely Diamond just once. If you can manage that, I thought, you can manage anything. It was going quite well, and I had got past the half-way point with no major glitches. This is going to be a two-day dishcloth, I thought, and made the foolish mistake of going to bed. Next morning I picked it up again, but something had gone wrong. Somehow, many rows back, there had materialised – an Error. My diamond no longer looked exactly diamond-shaped. There was a wobbly step in it.
But, I thought, it’s only a dishcloth after all. No one’s going to see the thing, it’s just going to be washing dishes. And after all, as Leonard Cohen says, there is a crack in everything (that’s how the light gets in). And after all, you have never in your life successfully managed to unravel a pattern like this, for an unknown number of rows, and a) pick up all those weird loopy yarn overs and k2tbl’s – and b) find out which row of the monstrous 65 row pattern you had landed back on.
However, I found myself unravelling, and counting the rows as I unravelled. Eight rows. And I found myself picking up the yarn overs and the k2tbl‘s and crossing off the last eight rows from my checklist and (take a deep breath) starting again at that row, which might or might not have been the right one. And it worked! I had saved my Shapely Diamond. Not that the end result is in any way worth all that time and effort but at least I haven’t got to look at the thing for ever after and think there’s a mistake in it.
My life seems to be made up of fairly big disasters interspersed with (as in the example above) minuscule successes. Today the Jehovah’s Witness ladies came round. They seem to like me. I came out and closed the door behind me, so as not to let all nineteen cats escape. They told me about their cats. I feigned interest, and in the little leaflets about Family Life and God Knows The Future Even If You Don’t. And they showed me a verse from the Bible, and read it to me. I noticed they left out most of a whole sub-clause out in the reading (a tiresome relic of having once been a legal secretary) and was so busy digesting this that I forgot to take any notice of the verse itself.
I think the Jehovah ladies thought I would have discovered Jesus by now. Instead I appear to have discovered dishcloths, but it’s a start.
And then I drove away the Jehovah ladies, more by accident than design, but another of those minuscule triumphs – by boring them to death about the six boxes of little shiny magazines that had just arrived and how, this very afternoon, I would need to stuff every one of the little shiny magazines with a navy blue flier with a picture of a bright yellow octopus on it, and then tomorrow I would have to load up my car with the little shiny magazines, take them into town and poke them through the first of seven or eight days’ worth of recalcitrant and badly-designed letterboxes; how I would have to face a succession of rabid Alsatians determined to remove my fingers, and weave my way through one overgrown nettle-and rubbish-infested front garden after another…
I can be very, very boring, I know, and once I start on one of my very, very boring jags I can’t seem to stop. (Ex was like this, too, it must be an Asperger’s thing). I mean, I can hear myself being very, very boring but somehow my mouth won’t stop talking, in fact the more panic-stricken I get about being very, very boring the more Mouth redoubles its efforts… like a kind of survival mechanism.
They backed off up my driveway and left me still talking, and clutching the two wilting Jesus magazines, and surrounded by boxes of little shiny other magazines, and navy blue fliers with bright yellow octopii upon them…
Another disaster, I suppose. Or another tiny triumph.