Last week I made a beret for an unnamed family member which the Clicking Needles ladies wanted to see, because for the last few weeks I had been fretting over finding a suitable pattern. I had finally found a solution but I needed second opinions on the finished article. On the whole comments were favourable, but Karen did ask whether I had 'blocked' it? Of course I hadn't because not only had I never heard of blocking, I didn't have a clue what it was. She explained that to shape my beret I needed to put a dinner plate inside it and then cover it with a damp tea towel. Seriously, I do sometimes wonder if I am having my legged pulled.
It seemed no one else had heard of blocking either so Petrina's mum went to find a dinner plate so we could do a dry run, so to speak. It transpired that either the plate was too small or my beret is too big, so I brought it back to cottage and it is now wrapped around a large dinner plate, snug in its damp cloth. Once it is blocked it will apparently be a perfect beret. If, however, the wet tea towel doesn't cause it to shrink, it might actually turn out to be a tam o'shanter, a Scottish beret which I found variously described on the internet as "a fabulous fusion between tradition and fashion" and " the perfect accessory for the comic golfer or Scottish clown". I shall pray for the former outcome.
Chatter turned to the issue of the annual Drama Competition. Karen, it transpires, only joined the Rural Women's Institute for the drama component and so like me she was disappointed to find few fellow thespian enthusiasts, even though last year she wrote a play around the competition's theme "a fashion show" and managed to drum up a cast of players who had to carefully manage referring to themselves as wumblegorzits - or was it gorzelwombits? - without mangling their lines. Anyway, it was a sensation.
Next year's competition will be a radio play which I harbour a deep longing to get involved with, perhaps Karen and I can collaborate. I think we could put together a nice little comedy of manners, complete with a stray Australian for slapstick moments, called "Knitting Yarns".
Tea was served with two plates of jam tarts, which Sylvia mistakenly identified as mince pies. They had been baked by the Brownies. Everyone was saying how delicious they were, but as I bit into mine, expecting light, flaky pastry to crumble onto my knitting, my teeth met with something the consistency of hardboard which I could barely chew through. In future, I shall be careful to avoid tarts made with gluten-free pastry by trainee Girl Guides.
Sometime shortly before the group broke up, we thought to comment on the young man who had been sitting at a computer throughout the afternoon. He was introduced to us all, and we were told he was there because of the broadband. Naturally enough, everyone assumed he was an IT technician. Not so, he is a final year law student from the next village which does not as yet have access to broadband (quelle horreur!), trying to finish his dissertation. He will be working from the hall every Monday, poor boy, trying to concentrate against the backdrop of our gossip and laughter. I don't know how he will fare with his degree, but he will certainly have gained a working knowledge of the finer art of knitting, which I think will make him a highly desirable batchelor in this neck of the woods.
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