When my sister and her partner stayed with us recently from Melbourne, she was wearing a pair of lovely colourful socks. I love bright socks and have quite a few pairs. I asked her about them and she told me that her partner's mother knitted them for her, because "it is cold in New Zealand”. I have never knitted socks. On a visit to my aunt I asked her if she had ever done so. She recalled being taught to knit them by her aunt when she came to stay. My aunt was a about 11, so it was a long time ago. She is nearly 90 now. The first sock went well, but the aunt returned to her home before the second one was finished. My aunt and Grandma tried to figure out how to finish it, and managed, but the socks were different. When the aunt came back she was not happy and my aunt had to unpick the second one and redo it! I can knit, but have never attempted socks, so decided that I’d give it a go. How hard could it be? The wool I bought had a sock pattern printed, in the tiniest, palest printing, on the back of the label. I started, and when I got to the part when you turn the heel nothing made sense. I bought another pattern, full sized and with black printing, which made sense to me, pulled the first one apart and started again. Socks are not the easiest thing to make I’ve discovered, and now that I’ve made the first pair I’ll probably leave it at that. We used to have a saying in my restaurant days. “Life is too short to stuff a mushroom”. Same goes for knitting socks. Amazingly, my sister sent me a photo a couple of days ago, showing her feet in yet another pair of hand knitted socks, made by her partner’s mother. Purple this time. I’d rather make photos. Some people would rather knit socks. I get that.
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