1826. Knitting needling
© Bruce Goodman 23 May 2020
It had gone on for twenty-seven years. Clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?|
Dora was knitting. Twenty-seven years ago Dora’s husband, Sven, had rather casually said during the evening meal, that her pickled turnips were nice but not exactly his favourite dish. Dora had taken offence, got out the knitting needles and entered into a knitting-pout. In fact, these days there was no conversation at all. Just clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?
Initially Sven had relished the lack of conversation. He could read the evening newspaper undistracted. But for these last seven years the clack clack clack of the needles imposing itself upon the silence was driving him nuts. The volume was growing by the day. It was loud and demanding. It was thunderous.
Only the other day Dora had fallen asleep in the armchair while halfway through knitting a complex row. Her jawbone almost hit her chest. Her mouth was agape. Sven thought he need only grab a knitting needle and plunge it into her heart and all would be over. As easy as that! He half rose.
Dora awoke. She began counting the stitches. Where was she up to in the pattern? And then…
Clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack… Need I go on?
It was Sven’s turn to doze. He never woke up.
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