(yarn for days!)
My flatmate has started crocheting. This isn’t a problem, and could actually be a rather rewarding creative experience, especially because it’s so radically different to some of the other, exclusively mental, processes that people like me tend to engage with. But there’s a key issue with the relentless yarn-weaving: there’s yarn all over the place.
It gathers in balls, like slugs performing bizarre mating rituals on one another, on tables and surfaces; there are strands dotted around the floor and the stairs like the hallmarks of a guilty dog, slinking through a house after flopping into one too many puddles, an dropping slick, wet hairs in their wake; a brave few pieces make it up the stairs, peering boldly over the nightmarish precipice of our short steps like the Yarn World’s equivalent of Neil Armstrong, forever breaking barriers and ascending, quite literally, to new peaks of shocking brilliance while the ogreish humans lumber about their hero, forever ignorant to their accomplishments.
And, in all honesty, I don’t want to disturb the yarn; for too long have the small, functional things of life been disregarded by pretentious blog-writing intellectual types, who reckon their latest half-baked magazine idea is of greater intrinsic value than the slow, heroic lurching of a piece of yarn up a flight of steps, clinging onto the sock of an unwittingly history-defining human. A salute you yarn, and your colourful diversity that has never been an obstacle to success unlike in human culture, and wish that these achievements continue, and records of Yarnkind continue to tumble as the crochet-hook of history bends towards more fluffy things inexplicably stuck to my socks after they come out of the wash.
Godspeed Yarn. Godspeed.