Knitblast the Fourth: Holy knitted lamppost cosy, Batman
Derby – city of the hangovers, heartaches, hidden handholding and half-price promises of my misspent youth. I returned here dragging my feet so reluctantly I may as well have been walking backwards. A cup of tea, a deep breath, a check of the knitblast utility belt and a trip into my past. Here was the house where I sat on the kitchen worktop and shared reduced-to-clear smoked salmon with three hungry rescue cats. Here was the club doorway that I stumbled from at 3am in search of chips,...
Read MoreKnitblast the Third: Knit at the movies
The interior of the Haymarket Odeon smells like all cinemas should. Stale popcorn and musty upholstery. The seats flip back comfortingly when you stand up to take off your coat. You end up forced to do a juggling dance on one leg as you fight to not spill your drink or lose your precious popcorn while trying to force the seat down with the tip of one toe. Handing said popcorn to a friend can cause massive rifts in friendships if spillage is involved on their part. I prefer to keep mine in my...
Read MoreKnitblast the Second: love and the scent of cat shampoo at Covent Garden
The ebb and flow of bumbagged tourists that is Covent Garden. They stand in their socks and sandals in the rare afternoon sunshine and clink shiny pound coins into the hats of wide-mouthed mimes and Pop-eye armed jugglers. They scurry about the maze of shops that smell like mangoes, or pasties, or lavender. They stumble slightly on the cobbled floors but don’t mind so much because it’s all full of ‘quaint’. I stand on the corner where two lovers once met for the first...
Read MoreKnitblast the First: return to the Whale Room
The city’s Natural History Museum is a place of dinosaur bones, shadows, and soft historic murmurings in galleries lined with the glassy stares of animals stuffed before filling an endangered animal full of sawdust was frowned upon. I can often be found losing myself in its mosaic-floored hallways, shuffling along galleries of ancient undersea skeletons, or watching the soldier ants protect the queen in the insect room, but there is one room in these hallowed beast-full halls that stops...
Read MoreLondon Guerilla Knitting: “My yarn is as bad ass as your spray can.”
Guerilla knitting. Street art that sings the same yarn-flavoured tune I do. Always had vague fluffy plans of releasing my knits into the city I am in all kinds of love with. Always admired those who have done it before me. Never really dreamed I would be standing nervously in the shadow of St Paul’s cathedral, pockets full of stocking stitch and fat tapestry needles, on the lookout for ‘the filth’ patrolling the historic building front, while the American queen of knitting...
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