Saturday, 21 July 2012


I love knitting socks. I think they may be the ultimate knitting project. They're portable.  They are a combination of mindless, happy stocking stitch for hangovers and lunch hours, and short rows which require a bit more concentration.  They are the perfect canvas for self-striping yarns and plain, luxurious ones.  Getting my point? Socks are my knitting crack and I always have one on the needles. 

However, and I cannot stress this enough: I HATE the beginning of socks.  Let's summarise what happens when I cast on a fingering-weight sock on my 2.5mm bamboo DPNs:

 1.  The stitches barely fit onto the one needle and fall off
 2. I can't count the stitches because they're too small
 3. The stitches fall off either end of the needles when I try to join the round
4. The inevitable twisted joins
5. The first inch is always like fighting with an octopus.  A very sharp octopus.

In short, I suck at starting socks.  I procrastinate (see: startitis, this blog post), I throw the thing across the room and I generally get really, really annoyed.

And yet, I continue casting the damn things on compulsively, one after another.  I must really, really love socks.