“Get behind me Satan!” she yells, holding her arms out beside her. She’s wearing a robin red knitted shawl and she towers over me as she turns to the people in her vicinity. “I just keep spending all my money on wool!”.
I am at the Carcoar River Yarn Festival in the NSW Central Tablelands. It’s a small community-run event with vendors selling alpaca and banana silk and hemp and recycled denim and possum yarn, along with fresh scones at 11am sharp. Women don their most impressive knitted jumper, their husbands in knitted vests. Many look hand-spun. Their own alpacas, their own hours spent at the spinning wheel and then, at the needles.
The hall is full of loud voices, people leaning over each other to feel the softness of each ball. Some of the stall holders have knitting projects on the go, others are battling internet connectivity with their Stripe device. The energy is high, with most paying for wool with no specific projects to use it for, destined for a ‘one day when…’ drawer.
“Want me to make you feel shit about yourself?” the woman with the robin red shawl says.