Monday morning and I’m gathering up the scrappy heap of weekend newspapers for the recycling of, when my distracted hand falls upon a magazine from one of those big ones, the kind that used to require some sizable knowledge in origami to read.
It falls open at a rather beauifully photographed page, where a lovely young woman is modeling a warm chubby knit. Oooh!
I think of my eldest daughter who has no natural insulation and spent most of the summer holiday teeth chattering in someone else’s wooly, having packed nothing more than could half cover a wiry elf.
That would bring some colour to her cheeks I thought.
Small print. £56.00 ..ok.. It’s a modern girls world.
Small print with a squint applied. Socks £56…or you’re having a …
Thick-Knit jumper- fifteen hundred quid. Fifteen Hundred Quid? Fuck off!!!
Who are these birds who live on air and cigarettes in deference to their tiny and undoubtedly enviable silhouettes, that can or would cough up such wedge to bush up chunky, thus?
How cold have you got to be and doesn’t that say something?
What point am I missing? Is it the global warming issue that has them running for Bond Street or where ever else they pop to in an emergency? Are they time sharing this green artifact with the poor old dear upstairs who can never hope of laying siege to the ozone?
My old gran would have knocked up one of these hairy monsters on a Saturday afternoon, too busy shouting down Jackie Pallo to notice she’d picked up broom handle needles and a large stray poodle.
Good lord. Those of us blessed with a knitting relative used to pray for the onset of arthritis and the glamour of a machine made.
Will you look too big in one of these? You bet your arse you will.