You Can't Make That Yourself For Less

You can always tell whether a person is an artsy pants if you are out together, you point at a particularly lovely object (and this could be anything, from a felted flowers garland, to a textured canvas, a wooden sculpture, an embroidered napkin) and the person with you recoils in horror at the pricetag and spitefully tells you that: ‘You can make that yourself for a lot less than that’. Shops, advertising, marketing and 'stuff' do not catch this type of Sherlocks out I am telling you.

The ‘you can make that yourself for a lot less than that’ brigade is usually constituted by tightasses who do not like to part with money as a general rule. These are the sort of people who will gorge themselves to sick point on free sarnies at the church festival but who will quite happily go hungry for 24+ hours if those same sarnies are for sale at 50p each, or even less. They hand out cards instead of posting them and they conveniently forget birthdays. These ain’t people who are patrons to the arts or artists. I recommend avoiding them at all costs.

Most importantly, they are people who have never ever tried their hand at making anything. Whether the item in question is a knitted scarf or a clay spoon does not matter; only the tight and the clueless, the hopeless, the arts-uninitiated ever say ‘you can make that yourself for less’. This is a fact, not an opinion, and I am going to show you why.

A few weeks back I started work on an advent calendar. I am very passionate about advent calendars you see, because it seems to me like the possibilities are so varied that one could spend a whole year making advent calendars while using items as unrelated as fabric and cork, tin and wood, paper and glitter, stone and glass and so on and so forth. In fact, I can think of many more things off the top of my head: melamine and dead leaves, yarn and ribbon, pegs and hooks, paper butterflies and papier marché birds, buttons and pins, tags and stickers... It just thrills me to bits.

One day while walking around Knutsford, I had an epiphany involving a cork pinboard, some Christmas fabric and lots of little numbered bags held up by ribbon hooked on silver pins. I went off and started buying my supplies. I was even a little smug when I left a local stationery shop with the cork pinboard for which I had only shelled out a miserable £ 3 (please note: it was on sale at 50% off).



Three weeks, and many hours of cutting, sewing, gluing and finishing later, and I have a unique advent calendar that I very satisfactorily hung up on Monday evening in preparation for The Big Day, today. But has this calendar cost me less than anything similar I’ve seen in John Lewis, Laura Ashley, House of Fraser, Selfridges, Paperchase or the ubiquitous charity shops? Has it heck:

cork board, half price £ 3
cotton thread £ 1.50
backing fabric £ 5
bag fabric £ 7
gold glitter £ 5
glue £ 4
ribbon £ 5
pins £ 3
chocolates £ 3

not budgeted for because I already had them:

hot pink backing fabric for bags
one other reel of cotton thread
silver thread for embroidery of numbers
green felt for numbers
special glue for back of pins
Heat-and-Bond reel for stitch-less hems and borders
needles, cutting mat and rotary cutter

So the total for my home-made advent calendar is £ 36.50, with my time, naturally, unaccounted for, as I regard the process as a free add-on to the pleasure of the making. Yet, I saw beautiful advent calendars made of felt and with tons of embellishments yesterday for only £ 10. The wooden ones at £ 25 and £ 30 are cheaper than mine.

If I were to continue this joyful pastime at the sewing machine and were to make, say, a small stocking, I would spent another £ 10 worth of fabrics, probably felt, and extra for a couple of embellishments, perhaps a hole-punch that could create a motif around the folded-over edge and a thick ribbon that would run lengthwise and across the top for hanging. How about a lovely two-coloured longline cardigan with belt? Or a small quilt to throw on the sofa? How much do you think the crochet blanket I am making will have cost in the end? £ 30? Yeah right.

The other day I was leafing through the Brora winter catalogue, ogling a beautiful cashmere blanket that only costs £ 350. Yes, I am saying only for a purpose there. If I were to knit myself the same in, let’s say, Debbie Bliss’s pure cashmere at £ 10 a hank, and with one hank measuring a very modest 41m, I would need hundreds to hit blanket-size, even in the very simple stockinette stitch. My ‘you could make that yourself for less’ cashmere blanket would cost me more than a Hermès one.

So, no, there is not much out there which you can make yourself for less. In fact, while I concede that there may be something, quite frankly, I cannot think of anything. And next time you hear that stupid litany... just roll your eyes and buy whatever it is you want to buy.

Hooked Up

A few weeks ago I started a crochet blanket. Not that I can afford enough wool for a blanket, but the reality is that I bought the materials over a year ago and then toyed with them for many months. Projects often work out like this; they have to go through a period of gestation that is completely incomprehensible to people whose idea of ‘creating’ is confined to following one of Nigella’s recipes, or reading Genesis from the Bible. Now the gestation is over and the blanket is coming along nicely.



I was at it all weekend and managed to add a very respectable three inches to it, which is a lot, really, if you consider that I started with twenty-seven little chains and I now have three hundred. It takes me ages to do one row. As the clocks went back last night and we stayed holed up both yesterday and today, autumn and light closing in outside, it seemed only natural to speed along with hook and yarn and tea and sweeties. I have also made a start on the second book I need to work on. This is in vastly better shape and, dare I say it, gripping stuff too. In fact, I am as hooked on that as I am on the blankie.

Ahead Of The Curve

I de-stacked my books this morning and flicked through them, bottom lip folded over and downward, trying to make my continuously shifting mind up on what to tackle next. Since dad's i-cord scarf will be complete very soon, and since I spent gazillion of pounds in sacks of Rowan Kidsilk Haze, it seems prudent not to buy anything further, until at least some of that fluffy stash has turned into something I can wear. But there's a problem, this one:



This is what I really would like to make out of it, Gossamer from Kidsilk Dream. The problem is a compound of problems: my recently acquired knitting skills, my impatience, my inability to stay focused to the end, lace and Kidsilk Haze itself.

This is an extremely polarising yarn, with some people swearing by it as little canaries pop out of their ears and start chirping around their heads like it's spring, and others corrugating their foreheads into Hell Boy-like scowls as they swear they will never ever knit with it again and who wants a Yeti jumper anyway? I have done little with Kidsilk Haze, most notably a little swatch of a scarf, the Hazy Fern Scarf I showed you already, but because I grew passionate (and angry) about lace very quickly, I keep thinking of Victorian Lace Today, miles and miles of Kidsilk Haze and quite possibly a metal needle stabbed through my head. I just know it is going to happen and I am too fearful to go through self-imposed tantrums to try it.

Yet, only yesterday, I was telling some knitting friends that I think it is vital that we operate ahead of the curve. Gasp, I almost surprised myself when I heard 'we must operate ahead of the curve, if only a little'. It sounded a little Joker-like, as he tells The Batman: 'I am not a monster, I am just ahead of the curve'. As I thought the principle through (my principle, but also his, for it can go in my PhD chapter), and with the clarity that only a cup of tea can instill in me, I found myself nodding in agreement, much as I hated the whole knitting lace process when I had to stop and start every three rows.

I am crazy about Fair Isle, but I don't want to jump into Fair Isle by doing some sample swatches, no madam, I want to do this:



It's like I know no middle measures, it's either an 800-mile lace shawl or no lace at all; either a 55 colour mix Fair Isle or no Fair Isle at all. However, something must be said for this leap of faith, for this enthusiasm sheltered by the crest of ignorance: if I never go for it, I'll always oooh and aaaah at the King of Fair Isle and will never attempt it myself. I am not interested in garter stitch scarves or doilies; even my forays into crochet are marred by a £ 150 expense for a blanket. What's wrong with a crocheted hairband to start with? I don't know, I just have to feel ahead of my curve until I finish the project and I can fist-pump my way above it and onto the next. And for all the stress it causes, I can highly recommend it as a recipe for Great Personal Growth Through Tantrums.

Kipping in Knutsford

I spent my first World Knit in Public Day in Knutsford with my usual group of knitters.



The task was to knit or crochet little hats for newborns, as suggested by Save The Children.



I didn't even finish mine (will I ever get to a finished object I wonder...?), but that's because my hands are no way near as expert or as fast as these:



And while I am at it, I will take this opportunity to throw in a completely gratuitous picture of Knutsford. Just because it looked so perfect today and because, let's face it, I really love it.

Crochet Essentials

Anyone who knits or crochets knows that finding a book one can deem interesting from cover to cover is one of life's greatest challenges. Sometimes I get a book on the basis of a couple of patterns alone. Sometimes, due to my still limited skill-set, I get a book because the visuals are very good, but the patterns and ideas not so much. There are however two books I am completely taken by. One is Vintage Crochet by Susan Cropper and the other is Essential Crochet by Erika Knight.



Vintage Crochet may be written as a homage to crochet of yesteryear, yet its designs are thoroughly modern. I am absolutely taken by the dress, the chevron blanket, the corsage and the purse and bag. The instructions are very easy to follow and a back section is rife with pictures of special stitches and techniques. And if you scour Ravelry, drop a line to susanlondon, the author of the book and excellent owner of Loop.




Essential Crochet is a treasure-trove of classic designs with a very elegant spin. I cannot wait to begin the spiderweb curtain, the lingerie case and the colourful throws. The book also includes patterns for cushion covers (another favourite of mine) and lavender pillows which always make lovely gifts. Considering the rate I'm going, if I start tonight I should be able to have something to give away this Christmas!




Of course I couldn't do any of this without The Happy Hooker. Sometimes scoffed at, certainly so in the States, where I was recently laughed at for admitting to liking her books, the Hooker is the author that got me onto the crochet bandwagon to begin with. The patterns in the book aren't that breath-taking, but if I ever need a refresh, she's the woman.

I've Got Stash

My aversion for spring-summer is well documented in my circles. Yet, there are things that I love about the warmer seasons. Mainly these:



these



and these



I know that the yarn does not quite follow on from the first two; it’s not like it only grows in these colours at this time of year. It doesn’t, but my penchant for candy colours only surfaces around about April, like my longing for yet another escape to Paris, like a broodiness that creeps up on me as soon as the last few daffs shrivel and die. Come my birthday I will want to envelope myself into everything brown, gold, rusty, earthy; come spring I want to metaphorically throw strawberry and cream (or strawberry and Pimm’s) all over my living space, from the lounge and dining room which have been decorated with Christmas in mind (dragon’s blood walls and gold everywhere) to the study, which, in order to promote concentration and intellectual prowess, is all Venetian blue. I wonder why it is then that I cannot work in that room to save my life. I have got computers there (surely, they are part of their problem, even though I must admit that the Mac does not feel half as threatening as the PC), I have got sharpened pencils in all colours, lovely books, a soothing lamp and a creaky white wooden floor. Yet, I never manage to do anything in the study, other than fritter time away. I’ll tell you what, the places that really concentrate my mind are always outside of the house. Coffee places are ideal. There are people that need absolute silence to get to work; I am the opposite. Lock me up at home and I start fretting that life may be happening out there and that I am missing it all in here. In fact, I am writing this away from home. Proof? So there:



I never have coffee somewhere other than Starbee, unless, that is, I am somewhere where Starbee is too small and one cannot work in there without being knocked off the table multiple times. So I decamp at Costa, where there is more space, or at least there is in this one. Today I went out with the sole purpose to get some yarn for a chevron blanket. I found a pattern in Vintage Crochet, in fact it’s fair to say that I bought Vintage Crochet and decided to learn on the basis of chevron (or ripple or zig-zag or wavy, call them what you will) blankets alone. Of course, I feel entirely accomplished on the basis of having the pattern and the yarn and the hook... I am sure the skill will come. Just sitting next to the kit should be enough to let me imbibe the skills from the air, little particles floating up to me and getting into my brain kindly of an osmotic process still unknown to mankind at large.

I figured out that the £ 50 till receipt for the yarn (and that is for one third of the blanket, let me add) should be enough to kick me into action. That and the burning desire to turn up at the knitting group on a Thursday evening and being able to nod slowly and knowingly at the right opportunity and go: ‘aaah yes, rippppple blankets, aren’t theeeey looooovely’ just before whipping my masterpiece out of the bag on cue, all 87 shades of it, balls scattering all over, whoops and cheers and gasps reaching for the sky left and right like the watery walls of the Red Sea. ‘Steph, I didn’t know you were doing a blanket?! Last time I saw you, you couldn’t cast on!!!’. My false modesty in full gear, I would let rip of a little smirk like I am this great, meek thinker capable of so, so, so much more than I let in. ‘Yeah... well...’ eyebrow coyly arched, ‘I only just started it’. Meanwhile I am fingering the balls, re-arranging them in vases, on the side, on the table, in the bookcase, in the bowl. I mean, they don’t look that bad like this, right? Who says that I have to use them?