Pub knitting

Yesterday, I tried to take Sara and Ted out to the local GAA match to see the Ulster team play. In typical fashion, they'd cancelled the games due to Mother's Day (Irish lads love their mothers). Nevertheless, our trip into the city wasn't a complete wash, since we got the chance to do a little Irish grocery impulse-buying, I mean shopping at Roxie Market, have some pretty tasty burgers at Darla's, and spend some quality time with the local Irish senior citizenry at the Blackthorn Tavern.

Sara took her knitting out of her bag to show me the progress she's made on her spindle scarf, which has been christened the "Kathleen" by, well, I guess Sara, and I got to thinking about how I never knit in pubs anymore.

When I was living in Dublin working on my MBA, everyday life would sometimes get so difficult I'd head over to whatever pub wasn't packed to the rafters, settle in by the peat fire (most pubs had one), order a hot whiskey and knit until my fingers cramped - this usually took anywhere from four to eight hours. At the time (four long years ago) you seldom saw people knitting anywhere in Dublin, so a lot the tourists who came in assumed I was a traditional Irish colleen knitting an Aran sweater for my fisherman-husband. The fact I was in the middle of City Centre Dublin (many miles from any fishermen) didn't seem to budge their impressions, even when I put down my knitting to consult the pattern notes on my Palm Pilot.

So, next time I'm in the Inner Sunset to pick up some Irish bacon, I'll drop in on the Blackthorn with some knitting. Either I'll be completely ignored or harassed by curious punters, which is pretty much always what happened.