As it’s the beginning of September, and as I’ve been clearing odds and ends from my stash (many of which are being transformed into a Colinette-type throw, why I bought enough mohair to refill Cardigan Bay I do not know, I don’t even like it), I was looking for patterns with which to enliven the existence of my friends and family. And I found some.
Perhaps a cowl or two? These are fetchingly described as ‘wind cheaters’ and, yes, he is wearing one too. What you can’t quite make out on this shot – it’s difficult enough on the original – is that the white fringed job that Mrs Stepford is wearing has fringes on both ends, so you fold it over to give a second attractive line of fringing half-way down. Plus, of course, it gives the appearance of really pronounced musculature in the shoulder area, as though Mrs S had either been spending time with Arnie in the gym, was about to go ‘arrrrghhhh’ and burst out of her clothes as some sort of middle-class Incredible Hulk, or had developed a strange disease. She’s also clearly spaced, but then knitting pattern models from the 50s and early 60s often are. Quite what this says about the modelling scene in about 1961 I hate to think. And there I was, thinking the 1970s were the times of true excess. Clearly not.
I rest my case:
What is in the cigarette that the chap – definitely the right word – in the ‘evening scarf’ is holding? (‘A’ for ‘A twit’?) Something tells me I won’t be knitting any of these for my brother.
Nor will I be knitting these, but only because he doesn’t play golf, of course.
Otherwise I’d be seriously tempted.
Can you imagine the reaction you would get, appearing on the golf course with these? ‘I say, old boy, you’ve got something rather strange on your golf clubs, you know’. ‘Ah yes, I’m afraid Gwladys has been busy again…’. ‘You want to give her some of these, old man. [Hands over tablets] Keeps my Winifred’s needlepoint under control.’
And let’s not get onto the subject of Uncle Bill, who is clearly the sort of uncle who is not mentioned at the dinner table, but who appears every so often when his on-course betting business goes astray, seduces the housemaid and then disappears for another twelve months, possibly with the silver-backed hairbrushes from Mother’s dressing table:
I mean, he’s even nicked Father’s pipe.
All I can say about the final one is please don’t:
Judging by the caption, the writer suspected that reaction: ‘I can see quite a lot of you blanching with horror at the thought of a knitted tie, but this one will break down all your prejudice’. No, it won’t. And what the heck is ‘wool string’? But oh for the days when chaps wore ‘week-end tweeds’ rather than crappy jeans and a nasty band T-shirt that has seen better days. Maybe I should knit one after all, as encouragement?
Pass me those dodgy cigarettes, I’m heading back into the stash…