Me and my mother in our hand-knitted winter woollies, 1964

My mother knitted all the time, for herself, for me and my sister, and probably for my dad, although I don’t remember. She was still knitting when she died of cancer in 1990, and in her knitting bag were several pieces – one still on the needles – of an unfinished jumper for a small child, a friend’s grandson, I think. I wrote that half-finished, never-to-be-finished knitting into ‘The Heart Sutra’, my story about two sisters clearing out their mother’s house after her death from cancer.

When my mother, a lifelong smoker, was in Te Omanga Hospice for the last week of her life, weak and confused and half-aphasic, she kept thinking she was smoking, and trying to climb out of bed to find an ashtray. In the story I made the mother believe she was knitting, and crawl out of bed, agitated, in search of scissors. The older sister tries to convince her she’s hallucinating, while the younger sister conjures up imaginary scissors to go with the imaginary knitting, and the mother calms down.

Crowns and wands, and me in my scratchy purple Aran jersey. My mother made us one each.

We must have thrown out her needles, thrown out the long vinyl zipped case they lived in, thrown out the row counters and cable needles and knitting bag with its cunning folding wooden frame. There must have been patterns, piles of them. There must have been half-used balls of wool. But we didn’t want them. We were in our twenties, messed-up girls with a mother who had been sick on and off for ten years, a mother who had been labelled, terrifyingly, terminally ill some 18 months earlier. What would we have done with knitting needles? We must have given them to the Sallies.

I’ve come back to knitting. It’s so soothing and peaceful and simple, a perfect occupation for a winter’s night when I’m too tired to think about anything much. It’s fashionable again too, seized on by riot grrls and punks who knit skulls and anarchy symbols into their scarves, used as a gentle, whimsical form of graffiti by young women who pretty up power poles with knitted leaves and flowers and birds, and add woollen hearts and comforting messages to the city’s chain-link fences. This is probably illegal, but only just; anyway, I doubt anyone’s going to chase a bunch of knitting women ‘taggers’ down the street and knife them. There are stitch ‘n’ bitch groups, knitters at the Southern Cross pub on a Monday night; there’s an International Knit in Public Day.

Snow, in Masterton! We definitely needed to wear wool. My sister's outfit appears to be a twinset.

I’m still an impatient knitter, losing interest in anything that takes longer than a few weeks. I can do scarves and hats, but the top I started last year is sitting, half-finished, in a plastic bag. I hate it when things go wrong: I make mistakes, and lose my temper, and when I drop a stitch down more than a couple of rows, I wish my mother was alive, so I could give it to her to fix.

My sister in a great little 80s number our mother knitted her.