Theodora loved to knit. Most evenings, after the evening meal and the dishes were done, she would sit in an armchair with the television turned on, and knit. She knitted to relax. She knitted mainly for other people; pullovers, and scarves, and hats, and mittens, and socks. She was a good knitter. You couldn’t tell the difference between her knitted item and a bought one. And she liked to knit stylish things that looked to be the latest in fashion.
“Who knitted this?” asked the Managing Director of Homeknits Ltd (the largest home-knitting company in the world, although most was done by machine). He had stopped a passer-by in the street who was wearing a beautiful pullover which had been a gift from Theodora.
Before you could say “Bob’s your uncle” Theodora was hired to hand knit items for Homeknits Ltd (the largest home-knitting company in the world, although most was done by machine). She worked for eight hours a day. It had one advantage: she could work from home.
After two years Theodora quit her job. She never knitted a thing again in her life. Nothing can destroy a hobby more than a job.
It had gone on for twenty-seven years. Clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?
Dora was knitting. Twenty-seven years ago Dora’s husband, Sven, had rather casually said during the evening meal, that her pickled turnips were nice but not exactly his favourite dish. Dora had taken offence, got out the knitting needles and entered into a knitting-pout. In fact, these days there was no conversation at all. Just clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?
Initially Sven had relished the lack of conversation. He could read the evening newspaper undistracted. But for these last seven years the clack clack clack of the needles imposing itself upon the silence was driving him nuts. The volume was growing by the day. It was loud and demanding. It was thunderous.
Only the other day Dora had fallen asleep in the armchair while halfway through knitting a complex row. Her jawbone almost hit her chest. Her mouth was agape. Sven thought he need only grab a knitting needle and plunge it into her heart and all would be over. As easy as that! He half rose.
Dora awoke. She began counting the stitches. Where was she up to in the pattern? And then…
Clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?