Mum was a frantic knitter, always clickity-clacking her way through meetings, movies and long winters on the farm. Her ability to knit without looking always impressed me. Then arthritis crept into her hands and she packed the needles away - or so I thought - until she dumped three bags in front of me containing 64 beanies she has knitted for kids with cancer.
Sadly, I did not inherit mum’s skill, or the patience to fumble through knit one-pearl one with my unorthodox style. Over the years I have blundered through a couple of scarves, randomly dropping and adding stitches as I go; then I attempted a wool cushion cover that ended up the size of a knee rug. They all returned to their previous incarnation as a ball of wool, and will probably stay that way until I have two broken legs and need a rehab activity, or I get snow-bound in the tropics.