There comes a time in a knitter’s life when the S-word has to be used. In fact, several S-words, all at once, including, but not necessarily limited to, Scissors! Scary! Steek!
and possibly, also, Scotch!
and hopefully, concluding with Success! Satisfaction!
Well, I like a challenge and this one has compelled me for quite some time now. Pretty much since I first learned of the technique, I have wanted to steek something. It appeals to the reckless risk-taker inside me (the one who is also terrified of those truly terrible S-words, Stocks! and Shares! but who likes to play with acids, flame, and hot glass. That namby-pamby, crafty, pseudo-risk-taker.) In other words, I was all up for knitting an entire jumper/sweater/jersey (delete as applicable depending on your particular use of English) and then cutting into it. For what noise could possibly be more satisfying than that of good, sharp scissor blades incisively scything through cloth? And how much more interesting might that noise be when the ‘cloth’ in question is a) not designed to be cut into and b) represents hours and hours (and hours) of your valuable time? (Oh, and money too.) Lead me to it.
That said, I knew – before ever a friend came round to my house, looked at the perfectly nice, nearly complete sweater, and helpfully pointed out that if I failed, then utter ruination, devastation and calamity would be wrought upon it; that there would be no return, and no salvaging anything, and was I Absolutely Sure? – that wimping out would become more appealing as I progressed. So I was careful to outsmart myself, and I’m proud of that I had the foresight to do so.
Thus, I carefully ensured a break in the pattern down the center, so that I would have no choice but to cut. (When I referred to actual steeking instructions, when the moment of truth arrived, I discovered that I should have knit a whole band of future-cardigan-insuring-ness into the middle of my sweater. I didn’t know that, so my own Panel of No-Return was more modest.) Of course when I tried on the perfect, whole, perfectly-fitting, all-in-one-piece garment while I was working out the height of the yoke, I had a moment’s bitter regret. And a moment’s bitter, regretful cursing. And then a little back-patting at my cleverness. And so on, in alternation, for some three days while I contemplated What Was About to be Done.
Then, being a fool and an idiot (that’s two separate entries for anyone who’s scoring), I waited for it to be dark, and the house overrun with small children, so I could do this with the full benefit of poor lighting and free-form distraction. (If you want risk, go for it, I say. Peace, quiet and daylight are for wimps.) No time like the present.
Words now fail me. Cue the pictures:
And of course, adrenalin rushes being what they are, I can’t WAIT to do it all again.