This week’s Friday thought is dedicated to my nemesis: knitting. Oh, just the word makes me scrunch up my nose in disgust. Me, wool and needles have flirted on numerous occasions, but it’s never worked out. A couple of months ago, I spent €50 on this gorgeous grey wool to hand knit a blanket. Then I couldn’t remember how to cast on, so I threw the basket of wool behind the couch, where it now taunts me with whispers of my ineptitude. Undeterred (read stupid), I tried, over the weekend, to knit myself a headband. Simple stuff. Cast on a few lines, knit until you had something that resembled a headband and then sew the ends together. First challenge, remembering how to cast on. It took me half an hour and five YouTube videos to teach myself to cast on for the fifth time in six months. Task accomplished, I started knitting. Two lines in and I had already dropped more stitches then I had knitted. By the 10th line, I couldn’t remember how to start a new line, so I kept dropping every first stitch and my headband was actually shrinking! By the 12th line and (I cringe to admit this) three restarts, my hand hurt and I accepted defeat… again. I think the most embarrassing part of this entire endeavour is that my grandmother, mother and sister are all accomplished knitters. My sister crocheted a plush-sized version of Gandalf the Grey… and I can’t even knit a straight line. Now every time I look at a beautiful knitted blanket or jumper, I choke back tears like a mother who has sent her babies to kindergarten for the first time. My heart breaks because I love the idea of knitting and yet every time it entices me back into the folds of its embrace, I’m the one who always end up getting hurt. And as I write this, I’ve realised that I honestly can’t remember how to cast on anymore. Looks like I will be teaching myself again if I ever want to knit something… fat chance!