THe story of the Beatrice shawl

The lace and stocking stitch Beatrice shawl pattern may have just launched, but technically, its goes back to 1997. I’d just moved back to the UK after a stint in Australia, and I started at a new school. Which was where I met the friend after whom the Beatrice shawl is named.

But I can’t really claim that that was the genesis of the shawl, because back then I couldn’t even knit. And I definitely wasn’t planning to design any knitted accessories for my new friend. My main design ambitions were around having the best binder collage of snipped-out pictures from J17 and Bliss magazine. Important stuff when you’re in year 8.

Beatrice shawl opened up on one side to show lace detailing

So no, I’m not going to start this tale in 1997. We’re going to skip over 23 years of friendship, through the copied homework and the underage drinking and the gig-going and the time she locked me in the basement over a particularly fraught game of Who’s In The Bag and straight to where we are.

The knackered mum years. For since that first classroom encounter, between us we’ve gained four children, a shared interest in colourful crafts, and a total of about 6 hours sleep each.

The tale of the Beatrice shawl actually starts with the Great Shawl Frenzy of 2020, when my reaction to the absolute nightmare shitshow of a year that is 2020 seemed to be to knit shawls. Lots of shawls. All the shawls. Two things drew me to them; no seaming, and minimal ends. I do not like seaming, and I do not like sewing in ends. I especially do not like doing them when I’m a bit stressed, which this being 2020, I obviously was/am.

And so I found myself WhatsApping a lot of shawl photos to my friend, who did me the wonderful service of pretending to be interested. And then it happened; I found a load of mustard yellow lace yarn hiding in my stash. Just sitting, there, looking at me. Asking me to make it into a beautiful lace shawl.

Detail of mustard yellow lace shawl edging

Now, among the things Bea-the-person has introduced me to over the years is the incredible joy of mustard yellow. As a ginger I’d always steered clear of every colour except blue and green, because late 90s/early 00s TV and women’s journalism had convinced me that they were the only options for me. Then I had kids and the combination of jealousy of heir wardrobes and just not giving a crap anymore led me to decide my previous colour combinations – or lack thereof – were boring. Enter: Bea and her array of mustard yellow.

So obviously, this yarn (the Yarn Collective Portland lace in Keeping Bees, if you fancy some for yourself) was telling me that I had to make it into a shawl for Bea. But this was where I got adventurous; rather than spamming her with another 5,294 photos of potential shawls to knit I decided to go in a different direction.

I was going to design something just for her.

Of course, being as she lives in London and I’m in Bristol, this process still involved a lot of WhatsApp spam. But it was new spam. Spam of lace patterns from stitch dictionaries. Spam of shawl shapes. Spam of terribly executed sketches from my newly-purchased design notebook. I asked her to pick her favourites, and then I committed to Frankenstein’s monstering the whole lot together.

It was not as difficult as I expected it to be.

In amongst the chaos and catastrophe of 2020, it was actually really bloody good to have something to focus on and get completely absorbed by. I sat next to my eldest’s trainset as he crashed his Thomas trains, calculating stitch counts. I worked out the best order to use the lace motifs in. I sketched out lace charts and sorted out the placement of the pattern repeats. I did yet another shonky sketch, and then I told Bea I was good to go.

And thus began the Great Unknown Knit. I had a theoretical lace shawl in my notebook, but no idea if it would actually work in reality. The stocking stitch bands were fine; you just keep knitting back and forth. Perfect, soothing crafting fodder. But as I got to each lace panel I had small-scale terror that my maths would be wrong and I’d have to go right back to the start.

It wasn’t. And I didn’t.

Instead, I ended up with the shawl you see in the photos. Lightweight, lacy, and of course mustard yellow. It’s a good’un. I’m proud of it. It’s a testament to enduring friendship, and the soothing power of knitting, and the joy of a good pop of colour.

You can get your hands on the Beatrice shawl pattern in three places, which are all listed below. I hear you can even knit it in colours other than mustard yellow.

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Never have I ever knitted… (or, the knitting bucket list)

For someone who considers themselves a seasoned knitter, there’s a surprising amount of knitting that I’ve not done. And I’m not just talking about all the planned projects that currently just exist in the form of a load of stashed yarn and some dreams. I mean there are loads techniques, and types of knitting, that I’ve just never done.

Admittedly, I’m not the most adventurous person. My idea of a cracking night is a cup of tea, some knitting, and a nice sit down. But I am adventurous in my clothing, and my colour choices, and I like to think I’m adventurous in my design. And yet, there are huge gaps in my yarny experience.

For example: I just knitted myself a pair of socks. They were my first ever socks. Not my first toe-up socks. My first socks, full stop. This is not really an acceptable state of affairs for a professional knitter.

And so I’m compiling a list of all the things I’ve never knitted so that I can work my way through them slowly. Prepare to be appalled, my fellow knitters. There are some gaps here as glaring as the gap in my cinematic knowledge that comes from never having seen The Wizard of Oz.

Top-down socks
Not really a big surprise, this one, given that I’ve just told you that I’ve only ever knitted one pair of socks and they were toe up. But for the sake of completeness, it still needs including. And rectifying. Swiftly, with some of the sock yarn I’ve just accidentally bought. Turns out knitted socks are really cosy. Who knew?

Everyone? Oh.

Anything else top-down
Yes, that’s right. I’ve never knitted a top-down sweater, or cardigan, or anything. I’ve only ever done one top in the round, although I did at least knit that one twice. I know there are huge benefits to whole top-down method, like checking the fit, and feeling smug, but I’ve still never quite been brave enough for it. I just look at those items and think “ooh, that looks tricky.”

A fairisle yoke
Science fact: I’d never done any colourwork until less than a year ago, because – shockingly enough – it scared me. It’s that whole top-down thing again. So I suppose the obvious conclusion here is that I should knit a top-down fairisle yoked sweater, isn’t it?

Magic loop
Another ridiculous omission, given that it’s apparently brilliant and much easier than using double pointed needles. But something about the name makes me think of law firms, and I apparently just can’t get past that. If I wanted to be a lawyer I would’ve done something more than watching a lot of The Good Wife and going ‘oh man, that looks EXCITING!’. And so, my brain’s idiocy in collating magic circle law firms with magic loop knitting has condemned me to a life of things being far more difficult than they need to be. Serves me right, really.

A triangular shawl
This one, admittedly, is more about aesthetic choice than a fear of technique. I’m not really a shawl-wearing person; I’m more chunky cardigans and coats with pockets full of crap from years ago. But, it’s occurred to me in writing this that I could use a shawl a bit like a cape and swoosh my way around. And that I could knit it in really bright fun colours and it needn’t be granny-like at all.

I’ve talked myself right into that one, haven’t I?

Brioche
I’m not going to lie – brioche looks like the result of some dark magic to me. How? How does it do that? I don’t have even the faintest idea. Suppose I should probably find out at some point soon.

An I-cord bind off
What is it? Is it a bind off made by Apple? How many other people have made that joke before me? It’s another one I’ll have to knit to find out. Although maybe not about the joke. I don’t think I’ll finish the bind off and suddenly a voice will go “10,006 people made that joke before you!”

That’d be cool, though.

So that’s it. That’s the list, a least as far as I can remember. And, now that they’re committed to the internet, I’m committed to rectifying the situation.

Eventually.

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How I accidentally became a small business owner

Nearly ten years ago, I did a thing that I found very strange at the time. I joined a business management graduate scheme.

If you’d asked me at the time why I did it, my answer would’ve been this: I originally applied to the marketing scheme, because that looked fun. The recruitment people rang to say marketing was full, but business management had spaces if I wanted to transfer my application over there.

I was late for a seminar, so I said yes to get them off the phone. I somehow made it through the application process in a haze of Red Bull and Marlboro menthols and shoddy research in between essay deadlines, and they offered me an actual paid job. I was hungover and half-asleep when they phoned, and I panicked and took it.

For many, many years after that I wondered if I’d made an absolutely hideous mistake and derailed my life through a series of decisions made mostly in the interest of getting off the phone quickly. It wasn’t the most thought-out of career paths, and I wasn’t really a business-y person. I didn’t wear suits, I thought ‘touching base’ sounded kind of filthy, and I generally didn’t have much of an idea of what I was doing.

It was only after I’d managed to shuffle my way sideways from what I thought of as the really businessy business stuff over into communications that I became even vaguely confident in my own abilities. But I never quite shook the idea that business wasn’t really for me.

So, when I decided to start The Woolly Badger, I didn’t really think of it as a business. I thought of it as a creative outlet, a way of reclaiming my identity after the onslaught of new motherhood, a thing to do while sitting on the playmat – but not a business. The plan was to knit some hats, put them on Etsy, and see what happened. That was it. To paraphrase Friends, it wasn’t really a plan – it was a “pl” at best.

After all, I’d never been one of those people who dreamt of owning their own business. Sure, I had a lot of respect for the people who did have that as a dream – except, generally speaking, for the ones who appeared on The Apprentice – but it did not seem like a thing that would be for me. I’d escaped from business a few years ago, so why would I be wandering back in?

It turned out I’d wandered back in without even noticing I’d done it. I was plodding along one day (literally. I do a lot of walking to try and get my son to go to sleep) thinking about what I wanted to knit next, and how I should try and market it, and what tags I should use and whether I should do a promoted post about it on Instagram, when I suddenly realised that I was coming up with a business plan. Which obviously surprised me, because in order to have a business plan, you surely first needed a business.

So I thought about it some more. I’d already ordered business cards (suspicious), and set up a business profile on Instagram (mildly alarming). I’d registered a domain, considered what I wanted the Woolly Badger to stand for (which seemed frighteningly like coming up with brand values) and had a think about where I wanted it to go (was that a vision? It seemed like a vision?)

It was then that I realised that yes, I really had started a business without actually noticing it. And I’d done all sorts of business-y things without even realising that business-y was what I was being.

Which is how I now, almost ten years after I joined that graduate scheme, have finally come to the conclusion that I’m really bloody glad I did. Because as an accidental business owner, it’s quite reassuring to have some actual experience behind me. I can write a business plan. I can set up a spreadsheet in a way that makes sense. I can have a think about long-term goals and quarterly objectives and try to come up with a plan that’ll get me there.

And I’m actually really bloody enjoying it.

Admittedly, I’ve not done a tax return yet, so you may need to come back to me around mid-January to see how badly I want to stab myself in the eye with a spoon. But for the moment, I’m actually not horrified by the sight of Excel.

Which is something I thought I’d never say.

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Dreams and plans and babies and tea. All the tea.

Close up of baby blanketI’m currently taking part in the “March Meet the Maker” Instagram challenge over on (shockingly enough) Instagram. You get a prompt each day, and you post about it. It’s theoretically that simple, but like most simple-sounding things, it can be surprisingly hard.

Not today, though. Today is “dreams and plans”. And oh my, do I have me some dreams and plans.

I also, however, have a one year old. And one year olds and plans don’t always mix – unless your plan is to stack some stuff up, knock some stuff over, and then throw some washing around. In which case, if we’re honest, the one year old will probably decide to shuffle off after a cat.

Still, let’s get back to the point, shall we? The Woolly Badger was born out of two things; my love of knitting, and my intense frustration at not being able to do any bloody work with my son around. Pre-baby, I was working as a freelance writer, a job which I thought would work well with children. And I can see how it would, if your child would just bloody nap (please, for the love of God, Billy, just have a sodding nap.)

Because I have a sleep-immune baby, I really struggle to write with him around. I’m only managing to write this now because he’s at nursery, which he goes to for a grand total of four hours a week. The rest of the time, writing is largely impossible. He’s really into buttons at the moment, so the sight of a laptop is the only thing more exciting than a TV remote. Hit the buttons! Hit them all now!

Knitting, meanwhile, he does not care for. Possibly because I’ve been doing it since he was teeny-tiny, or maybe because it doesn’t involve buttons until the end, and even then they’re not particularly exciting buttons. But he doesn’t care. I can sit there, and I can knit, and he’ll bash duplo together while I try to talk to him about what colours the blocks are, and everyone’s largely happy.

But then we get to those dreams and plans. And I find myself faced with old problems again. Because I have things I want to do with the Woolly Badger.

I want to write and release patterns. I want to design different garments – including, maybe, some for adults. I want to collaborate with indie dyers, and I want to go to yarn shows, and I want to try and convince the local independent shop to stock my stuff, and I want to maybe run some workshops to teach kids to knit because how bloody cute would that be and I want to and I want to and I want to. And in amongst all that I still want to write.

How do I do all this when I spend my life on a playmat with a baby who won’t let me out of his sight? I have no idea.

I’m trying to work it out, though. My first step was to sign up for the Game Changers course run by Helen at Guilty Mothers Club – which, incidentally, is brilliant.  It’s helped me let go of the mum guilt enough to put Billy in nursery for those four hours a week just so I can have a tiny bit of time back for myself. It’s helped me work out where I want to focus. It’s helped me have ALL THE IDEAS, and, I hear, will help me narrow them down and work out which ones to follow through on and how to do it (I think we can all agree that “knit a blanket and write a story about it” is probably one to abandon, though.)

So I am, slowly, slowly, working it out. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to do it, but I’m pretty certain it’s going to involve bucketloads of tea.

Until then I suppose I should be grateful that Billy’s looking like being a late walker. There’s only so far you can bumshuffle before you reach a ledge you can’t get over.

Fingers crossed that’s not a metaphor.

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