Today J wondered why I don’t hang out with “my own kind” more often. I thought he meant people who knit, and there’s an easy answer to that: because, since everything I do for work is knit and/or crochet related, I have come to loathe both crafts and their very existence. And the people who still manage to enjoy them. All of them, without exception.
There’s nothing guaranteed to ruin a much loved hobby like making it into a career. Actually “career” feels like too lofty a term. I don’t want a career. Having to have a job is quite enough, thanks.
Obviously, I still knit in my leisure time too, but that’s only because it prevents me from making inappropriate gestures with my hands.
But anyway, no, J didn’t mean other knitters, because he surmised, correctly, that they “tend to be a bit weird.” By “my own kind” he actually meant English people.
I’m not sure where he expects me to find these other Brits. There’s no “Little Britain” in Manhattan, and there’s no St George’s Day parade (no one even seems to care that he killed a dragon). Plus, even if I wanted to express any sort of “English Pride” (which I have no desire to do), people might think I was a member of The National Front or something. Also, I’ve never really understood being proud of something you clearly had no part in. In the same way I’m not proud of having black hair or having green eyes, because I had no choice in the matter. It just happened that way.
The Gay Pride Parade is different, because at least they have drag queens and half naked men and fun rainbow flags. I mean, what would we do on St George’s day to celebrate? Drink tea and scoff a load of biscuits whilst being awkwardly polite to one another? Not my idea of fun.