Sorry, not sorry. ‘Feck’ is mild compared to some of the things I’ve been saying. But, nonetheless, language warning.
I should know by now, but I clearly do not. I should know my size. I should know that I don’t need to add a few extra centimetres ‘for luck’. I should recognise that a fitted garment is meant to, you know, fit. I should know not to add a bit just to make sure that the yarn substitution – which is, after all, carefully measured from accurate gauge squares – works. This:
is supposed to be fitted. Now, I am quite happy to wear loose garments, and big soft oversized tunic-y things have been a staple of my knitted wardrobe for years. This is not that thing. This should be, you know, fitted.
OK, it’s too long. That’s fine, I can pull it down or bunch it up, though the latter does give me a strange marsupial-like appearance at the front. What I cannot, could not, cope with is/was the fact that I had a loose tunic-like garment with a fitted hourglass shape. Extra bulk at the front is one thing; looking as though you’ve got extra hips flapping about on each side is another. Think elephant ears, but unusually low down.
Time for action. That is, once I’d ruled out it being time to sell it. Who to? Nobody is that shape. I was tempted to unravel the whole thing, but was persuaded not to, given that the shoulders / neck / sleeves / upper body were all fine provided I wanted loose. Also it had been knitted in sport weight yarn, so 3.5mm needles: fine. No, what I had to do was get rid of the surplus hip thing and then I’d have something loose but acceptable. As opposed to loose but very, very silly (I’ve not worn such an odd garment since I was an extra in the York Mystery Plays aged 15, in a bizarre sacking garment which gave me an attractive third breast – cue the Eccentrica Galumbits* references).
So I began. First, the lifeline. I didn’t want to get carried away. Then revised my first thing: undo the sides, you dozy besom. First thing done, with some swearing. Knitting black yarn is bad enough. Trying to unpick the seaming on the fecker is much, much, worse. Especially when it’s a rather splitty yarn with a high silk content. Second thing, now. Lifeline inserted, on both front and back.
Garment tried on to judge correct revised length on grounds might as well deal with both problems.
I thought undoing the seams was bad. I was wrong. Trying to unpick the rib was infinitely worse. Eventually I emitted a high screaming sound that should have set off all the dogs in the village and grabbed the scissors.
In the manner of Jane Eyre, but slightly amended, ‘Reader, I cut the fecker’. I did. I make no apologies. I cut it. Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, it was me. (Validation? You think?) Mind you, I still had to unravel the stocking stitch, and that was horrible too. Splitty yarn. Splitty, splitty yarn. Of which I fortunately had another seven balls. So I kept cutting.
And then I threaded a fine needle through and reached the lifeline and began knitting downwards towards the bottom. I’ve done this before, I know it makes no difference.
Well, now. That depends on the yarn.
I did mention it had a high silk content, didn’t I? You know how light reflects off silk? Can I see the line where I picked up the stitches and began knitting in the opposite direction? Could people in the International Space Station see the fecking line?
Yes. Feck. Feck squared. Cubed, even.
(Any suggestions for disguising the change gratefully received. Will probably just settle for simply wearing the fecker now, mind. I won’t notice a damn thing once I’ve drunk a bucket of gin.)
*’The triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6, of course, for those who do not have their Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy to hand.