What do you do when you finish making a creature, and then realise that it looks dopey and foolish? If your mother makes rude comments about it for years, you allow it to get munched on by moths, then you leave it in the freezer for weeks at a time because you’ve forgotten it’s there? When a visitor asks about it, and you realise you never even gave it a name because you never loved it enough? This is the miserable story of dopey bunny, who I made from a La Droguerie kit in Paris four years ago.

When I finished him, I was quite pleased. I lived on my own at that point, though, so he never really acquired a personality (I find that creatures only tend to develop their personalities when there’s more than just me about), until I took him back to my parents’ house, where my mother was downright rude about him. She pointed out that his eyes were too far apart, and that it made him look moronic. And so his character developed as far as that: a moron. He soon dropped out of favour, as other creatures were so much more colourful and charismastic. So he spent four years sitting on the sidelines, occasionally getting eaten by moths and spending extended periods in solitary isolation in the freezer. He’s had a pretty tough life, and I admit, it’s my fault.

Then a couple of weeks ago, my mother-in-law was visiting, and she pointed out the rabbit, who was sitting next to the fridge, post-isolation. She asked what his name was, and I realised I’d never actually named him, since I had never bonded with him that far. The closest he’d ever got to a name was various insulting titles, of which ‘dopey bunny’ was one. I explained his sorry story, and she took pity on him, and offered to take him home and sew up his moth holes. Touched by this unexpected offer of kindness towards such a hopeless creature, I accepted.

Today, guess who came back in the post? Dopey bunny himself! But he’s undergone a transformation: dopey bunny has become dapper bunny. He’s had a drastic facelift, complete with eye repositioning (they’re now closer together, like the eyes of an intelligent rabbit), ear tucks (so his ears stand up straight instead of going out at right angles) and a nose and mouth redesign. He’s also had his moth holes fixed, and to top it all off, he’s even got a beautiful brand new scarf! He was a bit squashed when he arrived, from being squeezed and shoved through our letterbox, but his face is recovering well. I can now envisage this rabbit developing into a well-rounded character at last. It’s taken a while, and he’s been through some traumatic times, but I’m sure he would agree that it was all worth it for his new look. If anyone else has a similar story to tell, of an unloved creature with unfulfilled potential, I would recommend (mail order) plastic surgery without hesitation. I used to think such things were shallow, but now I realise how wrong I was.

As a bit of a slowcoach knitter (i.e. not one who knits slowly, but one who has a tendency to put projects down and leave them for years at a time), I keep finding myself confronted with the fact of how much my tension has loosened up over the past years. This is what happened with the four-year-long Lascala scarf (as I explained here), and I am currently facing the same issue with my pink tweed shawl-collared sweater [edited in 2015 to remove link as jumper now defunct]. I’ve been going through a few months of trying to finish up old projects (with varying degrees of success, and several new projects started in between), and this delightful pink garment is one of those on the finishing list. Last week I seamed the shoulders, and I’ve been attempting to prepare myself mentally for the new challenge of top-down, seamless sleeves, but rather than rush into things (haha) I decided to take it easy and knit the collar first of all. So last night I picked up the jumper and my big box of needles, only to find that I couldn’t work out what size needles I had used to knit the rest of the jumper with. The pattern says 4.5 and 5mm needles; my project page on Ravelry says 4.5mm needles; and my pencil notes on the pattern say 3.5 and 4mm needles. So… it’s anybody’s guess. Challenged with this kind of problem on a Friday night, whilst trying to multi-task and re-watch Twin Peaks, I can tell you – Twin Peaks won.

Once I had recovered from the shock (again) of seeing Dale Cooper get shot in the stomach at close range by an unknown assailant (eek!), I was able to concentrate on knitting again. Phew. So I ended up knitting this swatch as a means of becoming reacquainted with my jumper. The three sections are knitted on 4.5, 4 and 3.75mm needles. Even on 4mm needles, although the resting knitting swatch looks very similar to the existing jumper, it’s massively more stretchy. The jumper is quite snugly done, not in an inflexible way, but just quite differently to how I knit now. The 3.75mm needles probably produced the closest match, but I am nervous about knitting thickish wool on smallish needles. But then I don’t want this jumper’s collar to end up being of elephantine proportions in relation to the rest of it, with little old me poking my head out of the top… Ohh the trials and tribulations of being such an unreliable slowcoach! This must be a lesson not to take such long breaks between knits.

For Christmas, my boyfriend’s mother gave me some fantastic vintage knitting patterns. There was a copy of Needlecraft no.113 on Knitted Stockings and Socks, which was published in 1914, so a hundred years ago this year. There’s some more information about this booklet here (and a lot of other vintage pattern booklets besides). And if you’re interested in really vintage knitting patterns, the University of Southampton’s Knitting Reference Library has made all of their Victorian patterns available digitally online, for free. Anyway, back to the matter in hand (or should I say foot?). Within these pages, you can learn how to create all kinds of continental wonders, including a Dutch heel, a German heel, or a Norwegian toe!

My favourite pattern in this booklet is the gentleman’s golf stocking, below. The description reads: “This is a very comfortable stocking, with a well-shaped leg and a 10 1/2 inch foot knitted with fine wool, this last point making it particularly suitable for gentlemen with tender feet.” Those contoured stripes in the construction are surely more than smart enough to put one’s opponents off in a game of golf. I don’t actually know anyone who plays golf (apart from my uncle, and he tends to play in hot countries where socks like this would likely put him off his game more than his opponents), so I don’t think I’ll be able to test this pattern out in its intended environment, but I think it could probably adapt to alternative surroundings. Isn’t it funny the way that vintage patterns tend to suggest a specific purpose for every garment?

I also got a copy of Weldon’s Practical Stocking Knitter, ninth series, on Designs for Gentlemen’s Socks and Stockings in Silk and Wool. I wasn’t able to find any information about this one online, but from looking at other pattern booklets of the same name I thought it was probably published c.1900. That turned out to be a good guess, as I was fortunate to find a couple of the patterns had been revisited in Nancy Bush’s book, Knitting Vintage Socks, which gives a publication date of 1901. And handily, Ms Bush chose to re-work the only pattern that isn’t illustrated in the booklet – the gentleman’s fancy sock – so now I know what it looks like! Although the text accompanying the patterns is less chatty and entertaining, this booklet is my favourite, and there were so many great socks inside that I couldn’t choose just one to share.

First there was this gentleman’s hunting stocking with stag’s head turnover. As with the golf stocking, I know about minus three people (gentlemen or otherwise) who hunt, so I doubt I would ever be able to test how well these work for hunting in. However, they would probably work just as well for keeping one’s toes warm on a walk in the countryside sans rifle, or indeed on the sofa on a lazy weekend.

And then my other favourites were these gentlemen’s half hose with wedge pattern. They remind me a bit of the gentleman’s sock with lozenge pattern design, also re-worked in Nancy Bush’s book, which I’ve been wanting to make for some time. That’s also from a Weldon’s pattern, but an older one, from 1895, not one of the ones I’ve got. These are just wonderfully elegant socks, in my opinion. I would be impressed by any gentleman sporting a pair (though sadly, given the gender imbalance typical of knitters it would almost certainly be a sign of his having a very loving partner who had knitted them for him, and thus not a wise thing to base a romantic advance on).

I think I’m going to have to read in more detail what wisdom Nancy Bush has to share on following vintage patterns before embarking on one of these from scratch. For a start, all of these socks look as though they’re knitted on much finer yarn and with much tinier needles than anything I possess, and that’s speaking as someone who tends to knit relatively fine socks (or at least I thought I did!). Then, as Nancy points out, there is no gauge specified for any of the patterns, just the quantity of wool required, in ounces… So it could be tricky. But just think how much better off all the gentlemen in my life would be if I were to start churning out these fancy stockings for all occasions!

Today is the first day in a very long time that I’ve really sat down and knitted concertedly for hours at a time. That feels an odd thing to say, given that if you asked pretty much anyone who has ever made my acquaintance what my favourite hobby was, without a doubt they would say ‘knitting’. And they would be right. But I think I must have one of the world’s shortest attention spans, because my usual tendency is to knit one or two rows, maximum, and then stop and look around, or admire the extra centimetre, or check my emails, or look up a new pattern on Ravelry… or fall heavily asleep, in the case of train knitting on my commute to work… whatever. All kinds of things in life conspire to prevent me from concentrating on my knitting.

But today all I did for distraction was lightly reorganise my knitting boat (below – it’s not really a boat, it’s just so big I feel you ought to be able to sail it), by putting away a couple of more distant projects for a future date, safe from moths, and tidying all my handy bits and pieces into a box, so I don’t always have to chuck all the knitting out every time I need to find a tape measure. I’m sure I have my housemate to thank for this commendable behaviour, as she was sitting opposite me, keenly knitting something herself, which somehow enabled me to focus on my own needles all afternoon. If this is really the solution, then I might start having to pin strangers down to knit in front of me, to be my muse. Any willing volunteers – just let me know!

So I’ve made significant progress on my purple cardigan – the one I unravelled back to the beginning during my creative week at home last November. Until today I hadn’t really done more than just a few rows at a time, here and there, in the evenings after work. But now it’s starting to look like a cardigan! As of just a moment ago, I’m now back up to the armholes, and working my way up the right front. I’m doing more seamless transformation magic to this pattern, in order to give myself a fighting chance of actually finishing it. I knit all three sections (back and two fronts) in one go this time, using a provisional cast-on for the centre back section and leaving off the ribbing. I’ve just divided for the armholes, intending to graft the shoulder seams together and knit the sleeves seamlessly from the top down, picking up armhole stitches as I go. Then I will just pick up and knit the ribbing all the way round in a big circle to finish off. Here’s hoping it works as beautifully as in the plan…

This Kettlewell jumper is the happy product of an impulse yarn purchase at the all-too-enticing Oxford Yarn Store in April. It’s knitted in reverse stocking stitch, using Rowan Purelife British Sheep Breeds Chunky, in mid-brown Jacob colour, which is a lovely, sheepy yarn, and very pleasant to knit with. I cast it on straightaway, as soon as I got back from the shop. I finished knitting all the pieces on my commute by the end of July, just before going to Shetland for the In The Loop conference, but didn’t seam them together until October (and to tell the truth I didn’t seam most of it myself at all, as you may already know if you read my confession),  or complete the finishing touches until November, and by that point I had to incorporate moth repair into the process, as the blighters had nibbled the neck edge in the intervening months. Then what with the dwindling light levels of late, I didn’t manage to photograph it until today, as either the weekends have been too gloomy and unsuitable for photo shoots, or I haven’t succeeded in getting dressed before sunset (ahem). But hey, did anyone notice how I started and finished this whole project within seven months? As the self-professed queen of all things slow, that’s a wild success in my book!

It is a tiddly bit on the short side, and my mother says I should undo the ribbing and make the whole jumper longer, but I don’t want to. Partly because when I wear it with high-waisted skirts I don’t think it’s really a problem, and partly (mostly?) because I am downright stubborn and when I think something’s finished I don’t like to find I’m wrong. I am also a strong advocate against my mother’s unhealthy unknitting habit, so I suppose I am just putting my foot down out of principle. Additionally, foolish me made the sleeves ten rows longer than the pattern, because I didn’t take the actual position of the shoulder seams in relation to my shoulders into account when doing my calculations; but that’s fine, as I like having long sleeves that I can hide my hands inside when it’s cold.

I think it’s definitely safe to say that Kettlewell was a general overall success, with or without some minor setbacks depending on who you talk to. I’ve received several very kind compliments on it (though if one were feeling mean-spirited, one could say they don’t all count, seeing as I have a cheeky tendency to point out the fact that I made my jumper myself to my lucky companions, and wait for them to say how nice it is…), and I wear it all the time. It’s so wonderfully warm, it’s my new absolute favourite garment. May many more snuggly handknitted jumpers follow this one, is what I say.