Knitblast the Eighth: the melancholy tale of a crochet flower
The Stitch and Bitch London Knit Crawl for Worldwide Knit in Public Day. Four iconic London sights. Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights. Stop two. The cool echoey artiness of the Tate Modern Turbine Hall. Deadly Knitshade: I need to crochet a flower. Bluestocking Stitcher: Ok. Deadly Knitshade: I have no idea how to crochet. Bluestocking Stitcher: Oh…I could show you. Deadly Knitshade: Yay! Thanks. (times passes) Deadly Knitshade: I put the hook where now? Bluestocking...
Read MoreKnitblast the Seventh: confused Tower Bridge tourists
The Stitch and Bitch London Knit Crawl for Worldwide Knit in Public Day. Four iconic London sights. Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights. Stop one. Tower Bridge. Not London Bridge. Tower Bridge. Tourist: “Excuse me. We’re looking for the London Bridge. Is that the London Bridge?” Londoner: “No, that’s Tower Bridge. London Bridge is that way.” *points in direction of London Bridge* Tourist: “And that building over there? Is that the...
Read MoreLondon: Graffiti knitting confessional
Still in London. It seems that despite all my best intentions to get in, get out, and get back on the road, I am going to be in London for a bit longer than I planned. The apes, the tigers, the Great Wall, and Grand Canyon will have to wait a bit longer. So despite the whinging and whining of my backpack and boots (quiet in there!) I thought I better make myself comfortable in my city. Comfortable comes in the form of finding my constantly moving littlest hobo of a brain something to do. So I...
Read MoreKnitblast the Sixth: On yer bike, you filthy yarnstormer
Elderly lady sitting opposite me on the bus watches me for about ten minutes. I’m sitting and knitting on public transport, which tends to get stares. Eventually I slide my headphones off my ears and meet her ‘I’ve been knitting since before you were born, you’re not holding your yarn properly, what kind of needles do you call those?’ gaze. “What are you knitting?” she asks me, eyeing the stripy snake of stitching that is lounging in my lap....
Read MoreKnitblast the Fifth: I just purled to say…
There are places in the world where no one likes to be. Hospital is one of those places. Hospital smells of disinfectant, overcooked vegetables and fear that you can’t speak of until you get home and blurt it out over a nice cup of tea and a decent slice of had-a-bad-day cake. St Bartholomew‘s, sitting quietly in London’s Smithfield district, lives in the heart of the City’s square mile, smack bang next to the blood and sawdust of London’s oldest meat market...
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