Now I belong to a generation that was dragged round wool shops as a child.
My mum, her friend and later my sisters all knitted and so the trip to the shop was a regular part of my Saturdays.
It started with the knitting pattern, went on to an endless discussion about the colour of the wool and finished with walking home with loads of the stuff.
Then there was the smell.
Wool shops had a distinctive smell, which was a sort of warm perfume smell which followed you home and stayed where ever mother was knitting.
There was something else about the wool shop which for years I couldn’t quite work out what it was, and then recently it came to me, it was always so very quiet, as if there were secrets about knitting that could only be uttered in a low almost conspiratorial way.
Ours was a traditional wool shop. The wooden shelves which reached to the ceiling were made of a deep dark wood which shone in the sunlight and were heaped high with wool.
And then there were the wooden and glass counters which today you only see in shops pretending to be old. Through the glass top you could see more wool and all sizes of knitting needles.
So the day Mrs Rogers announced that she was going to try out a knitting machine it was if she had admitted to multiple affairs over the preceding twenty years.
I wouldn’t mind but it wasn’t even that she was going to buy one; all she wanted to do was try it out.
But that marked her out as a flighty thing who would soon be buying a Christmas cake instead of making one and no doubt had already used custard powder and meat spread.
Nor did the torture of the wool shop stop there. Once home the wool had to be wound into balls, which could be only done using the back of a chair but usually involved me having to stand with my arms outstretched and the wool was pulled from me and went into balls.
So I suppose I chose to ignore the wool shop on Wilmslow Road, and then it had gone.
And in memory of that wool shop and many others I shall leave you with this classic pattern from our Jillian who collects them, in the hope that she will knit me a balaclava.
Location; Wilmslow Road,
Picture; Wilmslow Road, 1967, Courtesy of Manchester Archives+ Town Hall Photographers' Collection, https://www.flickr.com/photos/manchesterarchiveplus/albums/72157684413651581?fbclid=IwAR35NR9v6lzJfkiSsHgHdQyL2CCuQUHuCuVr8xnd403q534MNgY5g1nAZfY
and knitting patterns, 1930-1970 from the collection of Jillian Goldsmith
It started with the knitting pattern, went on to an endless discussion about the colour of the wool and finished with walking home with loads of the stuff.
Then there was the smell.
Wool shops had a distinctive smell, which was a sort of warm perfume smell which followed you home and stayed where ever mother was knitting.
There was something else about the wool shop which for years I couldn’t quite work out what it was, and then recently it came to me, it was always so very quiet, as if there were secrets about knitting that could only be uttered in a low almost conspiratorial way.
Ours was a traditional wool shop. The wooden shelves which reached to the ceiling were made of a deep dark wood which shone in the sunlight and were heaped high with wool.
And then there were the wooden and glass counters which today you only see in shops pretending to be old. Through the glass top you could see more wool and all sizes of knitting needles.
I wouldn’t mind but it wasn’t even that she was going to buy one; all she wanted to do was try it out.
But that marked her out as a flighty thing who would soon be buying a Christmas cake instead of making one and no doubt had already used custard powder and meat spread.
Nor did the torture of the wool shop stop there. Once home the wool had to be wound into balls, which could be only done using the back of a chair but usually involved me having to stand with my arms outstretched and the wool was pulled from me and went into balls.
So I suppose I chose to ignore the wool shop on Wilmslow Road, and then it had gone.
And in memory of that wool shop and many others I shall leave you with this classic pattern from our Jillian who collects them, in the hope that she will knit me a balaclava.
Location; Wilmslow Road,
Picture; Wilmslow Road, 1967, Courtesy of Manchester Archives+ Town Hall Photographers' Collection, https://www.flickr.com/photos/manchesterarchiveplus/albums/72157684413651581?fbclid=IwAR35NR9v6lzJfkiSsHgHdQyL2CCuQUHuCuVr8xnd403q534MNgY5g1nAZfY
and knitting patterns, 1930-1970 from the collection of Jillian Goldsmith
I asked mum to make me a balaclava - she knitted anything & everything - as all my trendy mates were wearing them. She did me a buff one, which was subsequently re-purposed with the addition of pipecleaner whiskers and furry ears when I had to play the dormouse in the Madhatter's Tea Party at St John's.
ReplyDeleteThat brings back memories of early (Ancoats) childhood. My Mum used to do a "Pin Money" job looking after my "Aunty" Joyce's wool shop on the LH side of Ashton Old Rd, not far from Philips Park Road Junction. It was my stopping off point on the way back home from St.Annes School on Cyrus/Cambrian St. I would sit in the back room awaiting Mum to finish her chores, and staring at then unknow jars such as Camp Coffee.
ReplyDeleteThe single bright ding of the shop door bell as someone entered, and me wishing that I could get home, rather than listening to the ladies looking at patters of cable nit this or that. Occasionally a "Traveller" would call to either drop off his wares previously ordered to stock up the shelves, or offer a new good.
(As an aside,I do recall Joyce her having dark skin, Romany like, and her "curing" my knee warts after the doctor had failed. She cut a potato in half rubbed it on the warts, buried half(no idea which one) and disposed of the other, Cured!)
I have a pic of a relative-made jumper with cowboys adorning either side of the zip front sat aside a fence, mirror imaged (Copy avail) of me and 2 school mates on his Veranda overlooking Russel Now Gurney) St. Happy days, but not the seemingly eternal waiting in the wool shop. Phil Gregson.
That brings back memories of early (Ancoats) childhood. My Mum used to do a "Pin Money" job looking after my "Aunty" Joyce's wool shop on the LH side of Ashton Old Rd, not far from Philips Park Road Junction. It was my stopping off point on the way back home from St.Annes School on Cyrus/Cambrian St. I would sit in the back room awaiting Mum to finish her chores, and staring at then unknow jars such as Camp Coffee.
ReplyDeleteThe single bright ding of the shop door bell as someone entered, and me wishing that I could get home, rather than listening to the ladies looking at patters of cable nit this or that. Occasionally a "Traveller" would call to either drop off his wares previously ordered to stock up the shelves, or offer a new good.
(As an aside,I do recall Joyce her having dark skin, Romany like, and her "curing" my knee warts after the doctor had failed. She cut a potato in half rubbed it on the warts, buried half(no idea which one) and disposed of the other, Cured!)
I have a pic of a relative-made jumper with cowboys adorning either side of the zip front sat aside a fence, mirror imaged (Copy avail) of me and 2 school mates on his Veranda overlooking Russel Now Gurney) St. Happy days, but not the seemingly eternal waiting in the wool shop.
Would love to see the picture.
ReplyDelete