Not For The Faint Hearted

I explained in my Welcome that I live with my friend Mildred who is a seasoned competitive knitter. Many people are surprised to discover that there are knitting competitions regarding knitting as the preserve of grannies. Competitive knitting is not for the faint hearted! The sport has a history going back at least until Norman times. The Norman chronicler, Bergere the Gaul said in his fabulous tale about the capture of Normandy by Rollo (from the "North" hence Nor(th)man) in 911 AD that "the women do spin their yarn hereabouts with spears of wood. They devise many diverse costumes for wearing by all men high or low. The high born ladies do fabric cloths (clothes) in a multitude against the hours of the sun, She that delivers her finished cloth is Queen for the day". I think this means the fastest one wins.

Over the centuries knitting has waxed and waned in fashion terms. As a girl almost every woman I knew could be found close to her knitting needles and then by my 20s in the early 1970s knitting had moved out of popular culture as the disposable society moved in. However, in the background competitive knitters were still challenging one another. In the village where we live there is a memorial hall erected after the Great War by Sir Oliphant Dent-Uhr. Sir Oliphant was a Victorian business man who had made his money by the importation of ivory for the manufacture of prosthetic oral items. He lived in some grandeur in Dent Hall, now alas a modern housing estate, and could often be seen striding around the estate calling on the poor widows of his former workers. He really was Victorian philanthropy in action. His son Ivor was a weakly child who was rejected from military service. However, his father's influence eventually managed to secure him a commission in the New Forest Regiment and he went to France where he was killed just five days after his arrival on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Sir Oliphant never forgave himself and once the Memorial Hall had been built shot himself. Very tragic. However, there have been Dent-Uhrs in the village ever since. Currently, Chair of the Knitting Circle is Sir Oliphants Grand daughter, Lady Dorothy Dent-Uhr or Dottie to her friends - of whom she has few. She is the stereotypical British Grande Dame. Tall, porcelain complexion, half rimmed spectacles over which she fixes her quarry with a gimlet eye. Like myself, unmarried, but in her case there has been a stream of would be suitors all of whom had their hopes dashed on the rocks of her cold, unsympathetic character. Her knitting is first class, but not as good as Mrs Perleun. A stalwart of the competition circuit for forty years, descended from a long line of knitters, Mrs P has more cups and medals than any other competitive knitter in the World! I once asked her how long it takes for her to make a scarf and she presented me with one just 30 minutes later! Lady Dorothy is the President of the Knitting Club and Mrs P the Secretary, but that's where the unity ends. They are both sworn opponents!

Mildred came up against them early on. A local golf club had asked the club to knit them some wooly club covers. The club, ever in competition, said that they would on the understanding that the golfers provided a trophy. This they did. A magnificent gold affair, rather like a gothic urn. Lady Dorothy's eyes coveted this as indeed did Mrs P. Even Mildred, who really belongs to the club for the social aspects, was entranced. On the day, a saturday, I arrived early with tea and coffee making equipment ad fifty fairy cakes, a Battenburg and two dozen individual Bakewell tarts - made to my old aunt's secret recipe; and battle was joined.

The golf club secretary laid before the ladies an array of golf clubs. I am afraid that I am not very good on the names of these things, 9 irons, putters, a niblet even. They all required a cosy cover. The ladies were given 60 minutes exactly. You had to be there to believe it. Needles flashed, wool wound off the ball like bullets slotting into a machine gun. Soon the finished articles were beginning to line up. After half an hour, Lady Dorothy had eight covers; Mrs P nine and Mildred, poor dear, seven.

Mrs P was starting to get the superior look of the victor in her eye. Lady Dorothy looked like she had a small thunder cloud moving across her head as the two of them battled it out. Then disaster struck Mrs P. Lady Dorothy travels everywhere with her little Staffordshire Terrier, "Picot". Picot took a fancy to Mrs P's bright red wool ball and chased it across the room. Her wool unravelled in front of her eyes and poor Mrs P became completely confused. Lady Dorothy looked up and had the temerity to laugh. That did it! Mrs P kicked one of her balls of wool and there began a very unpleasant and loud argument in which one called the other a cheat and "all thumbs" whilst the other shrieked that the dog was a deliberate distraction. Immediately both ladies were disqualified which left Mildred to win! So we now have on our mantelpiece at home a gorgeous gold trophy. Of course every time Lady Dorothy sees either Mildred or I she reminds us that the trophy was won by default. Frankly I don't mind. Mildred may not be the most ruthlessly competitive person, but she still has won her prize.