My parents and siblings came over for dinner tonight.
My house being what it is, there's yarn in lots of places. My mum, being a yarn appreciator - I guess it's true what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree - gave a few skeins that are out in the open a squeeze, inquiring as to the fibre content of them (100% superwash merino), and handed a skein over to my dad to see if it would be 'soft enough' for him. (He figured it would.) She picked up my sweater front from off the coffee table and asked what it was, since I've only got about six inches from the bottom hem, so it's not obvious yet that it's a sweater front.
And then she picked up my second Saints sock, which is done save the kitchenering of the toe and weaving in of ends, and looked at it, and then asked me why the foot is so long.
My brilliant reply was, Huh?
The foot, she said. Why'd you make it so long?
I told her that that was how long it needed to be to fit my foot.
She stared at the sock for a beat, then said, No, in that sort of drawn out way that I can't really convey well by typing it - it's the sort of No that really means, You are out of your freaking mind, there is no way that what you are telling me is even in the realm of possible, never mind true.
Now, I don't have unusually large feet, or disproportionately long feet. My feet are, as I understand it, on the small size - I wear a size 6 shoe. My mother's feet are a bit smaller than mine - she wears a size 5. So that sock shouldn't have been much larger than a sock she might have made for herself. But there she was, holding my sock, talking about it as if I'd taken leave of my senses and gone ahead and put a foot on there that would work for someone with a size 13 foot or something.
My sister then stuck up her foot - she was sitting on the floor - and said, It's fine, Mum. Hold it up against my foot - it's the same size as hers.
Which my mother did. Sure enough, the foot length was right.
And Mum said, Oh. Huh.
And that was that.
My house being what it is, there's yarn in lots of places. My mum, being a yarn appreciator - I guess it's true what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree - gave a few skeins that are out in the open a squeeze, inquiring as to the fibre content of them (100% superwash merino), and handed a skein over to my dad to see if it would be 'soft enough' for him. (He figured it would.) She picked up my sweater front from off the coffee table and asked what it was, since I've only got about six inches from the bottom hem, so it's not obvious yet that it's a sweater front.
And then she picked up my second Saints sock, which is done save the kitchenering of the toe and weaving in of ends, and looked at it, and then asked me why the foot is so long.
My brilliant reply was, Huh?
The foot, she said. Why'd you make it so long?
I told her that that was how long it needed to be to fit my foot.
She stared at the sock for a beat, then said, No, in that sort of drawn out way that I can't really convey well by typing it - it's the sort of No that really means, You are out of your freaking mind, there is no way that what you are telling me is even in the realm of possible, never mind true.
Now, I don't have unusually large feet, or disproportionately long feet. My feet are, as I understand it, on the small size - I wear a size 6 shoe. My mother's feet are a bit smaller than mine - she wears a size 5. So that sock shouldn't have been much larger than a sock she might have made for herself. But there she was, holding my sock, talking about it as if I'd taken leave of my senses and gone ahead and put a foot on there that would work for someone with a size 13 foot or something.
My sister then stuck up her foot - she was sitting on the floor - and said, It's fine, Mum. Hold it up against my foot - it's the same size as hers.
Which my mother did. Sure enough, the foot length was right.
And Mum said, Oh. Huh.
And that was that.
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