Boys Don't Knit (3 page)

What a dazzling array of tempting choices! Can't I do all of them?

Let's see: Car Maintenance with Nigel Fletcher? That would be fixing cars, with my dad! Something I hate and which he makes me do on the weekends anyway.

Knitting? Knitting?! A suitable class for me is knitting? What's Ms Gunter trying to say about me? Should dangerous criminals be allowed near knitting needles? Would they give a crochet hook to the man who ate the ice-cream vendor's kidneys? I think not. Having said that, the class is being taken by Miss Swallow, my English teacher. Miss Swallow is hot, as I think I may have mentioned before. I won't repeat what Joz says about her, especially the bit about the whipped cream.

Microsoft Office? I already know how to use Microsoft Office. Everyone knows how to use Microsoft Office. Wayne Rooney can use Microsoft Office. That course is for grannies and people who've just arrived in civilisation after having been raised by wolves in the Appalachians. I'm not doing fifty-five minutes on how to plug a laptop in.

Then there's Pottery. Seems like the best of a bad bunch at first glance. But I already spend three days a week cleaning engine oil out from under my fingernails. The idea of scraping a kilo of clay out every other night doesn't exactly thrill me. Also, there's a very good reason I can't choose Pottery. The class is being taken by Naomi Hooper, Megan's mum. Not that Mrs Hooters doesn't have her own appeal, of course, but if I take her class then Megan's certain to find out and I'm not having her smirking at my wobbly flower pots. It should be the other way around.

All in all, brilliant. Why couldn't there be something cool, like computer game design, or fencing, or home butchery? Come to think of it, what I could really do with is bicycle maintenance. There's something not at all right with the front derailleur on my bike.

Jessica Swallow is not the first teacher I've had a crush on. I've had a bit of a crush on most of my teachers. Female ones, I mean. Dad claims that my teachers have become progressively more attractive as I've gone up through the years at school. Mum says they're not becoming more attractive, just younger in comparison to him. There was Mrs Hunt in Year 4 who really wasn't all that but she wore thin cotton dresses you could see through. Then there was Ms Young in Year 6 who was not young in real life but was pretty, apart from the goitre. But even then the goitre just made her more accessible.

I think women need at least one imperfection to make them really attractive. In Miss Swallow's case it's her canine teeth, which come out at an odd angle and are slightly discoloured. To me those teeth add to her beauty rather than detract from it. But I'd probably still find her attractive if her ‘flaw' was having a narwhal's horn sticking out of her forehead.

She's so gorgeous. She's small, with big, green eyes. She has ash-blonde hair and this smooth pale skin that just seems to glow.

Now I come to read that back I realise that description makes her sound like an alien. If she is an alien she can abduct me any time, which brings me to the dream I had last night. When I lie in bed before I go to sleep, I sometimes like to imagine myself being incredibly rich, or really good at sports, or being a famous writer or something. Often, though, my fantasy is that some really fit chick is my girlfriend. It might be Megan, or Holly Osman, or the dark-haired girl who goes past our house on her way up to the college every morning. But quite often it's Jessica Swallow. The problem is that I like my fantasies to be consistent. They have to be plausible, if unlikely. They also have to be ethical. Dream Rohypnol is a big no-no for me.

Of course, Miss Swallow isn't going to fall head over heels in love with me just like that. She's twelve years older than me. She has a massively tall, semi-professional footballer boyfriend, who drives a flash car. And she's gorgeous. I mean, she's my teacher for heaven's sake! Miss Swallow loves her job. She's probably not going to throw all that in for me.

So, how do I become rich and successful and attractive to older women? Or younger women? Any female over the age of sixteen? Usually I imagine that Mum invents a new magic trick like Jonathan Creek except real and she becomes incredibly famous and goes on telly like David Blaine, except less of a twat. That provides the money for me to attend a top school where they teach me to be a young entrepreneur who launches my billionaire business at seventeen; one that gives loads of money to charity and Jessica Swallow is so bowled over by my dynamism and generosity that she falls head over heels for me and leaves her semi-professional footballer, who just can't compete, frankly. He takes it on the chin, though, and eventually he and I become quite good friends as it happens and he teaches me to play football and also how to drive in his flash car. He becomes the older brother I never had.

My fantasies take ages to really get to the good bits and I usually fall asleep well before I get to first base with the girl. Last night, though, I had a dream which cut through all that crap. I was at a knitting class with Miss Swallow and fifteen old ladies. An alien spacecraft came down, beamed us all up and put us in a zoo on their home planet. Miss Swallow had little choice but to turn to me for comfort. We lay together on a bedspread knitted for us by the old ladies. The fantasy cut to black after that. I can't seem to go beyond that point. It's too much. And in any case it would be a bit itchy because of the wool.

Suffice to say, I've taken this as a big sign that I should choose the knitting class.

I've emailed Claudia Gunter at West Meon Probation Services and am now having a massive panic that my email was too sarcastic. I meant it to be funny, but reading it back it just looks like I'm taking the piss. Why do I do these things? Here's what I sent.

I might have laid it on a bit thick. Oh well, I expect she gets worse emails from the waffle-cone killer.

I haven't told Dad I'm doing the knitting. I lied. I've told him I'm doing pottery instead. That didn't exactly fill him with joy.

‘Pottery,' he said, staring at me over breakfast. ‘Pottery  … '

‘Well, there wasn't much choice,' I said.

‘What's wrong with my course?' he asked. ‘Could have been an opportunity to spend some time together.'

‘Conflict of interest,' I said wildly.

‘What?'

‘It's a conflict of interest. Because you're my dad. My probation officer made it clear she'd be looking for attendance and behaviour reports from the course teacher. You wouldn't be impartial.'

‘Yes, I bloody would,' he said. ‘If you played up in my class I'd shop you no problem. I'd sing like a canary, I would.'

‘Thanks, Dad,' I said. ‘I'm sure you would, but my probation officer wouldn't accept it, I'm afraid.'

‘Shame,' he said, sighing.

‘Yes, shame,' I replied.

‘What about computers?' Dad said.

‘Too basic.'

‘And what was the other choice?'

‘Knitting.'

He barked out a laugh. ‘No chance of you taking that at least.'

‘Why?' I asked, bristling slightly.

He laughed again. ‘It's just  …  well, knitting. It's a bit  … '

I waited.

‘It's a bit  … '

‘Gay?'

‘Hey, I didn't say that,' he said quickly. He gets in trouble with Mum if he's homophobic around the house. ‘I meant it's a bit  … '

‘Effeminate?'

‘What's that mean?'

‘Girly.'

‘Yep. That. That's the word. Girly.'

Eventually he bought the pottery thing though. It must have been the thought of his son getting labelled as teacher's pet that did it. In Dad's book that would have been the height of Big Girl's Blouse.

Mum, on the other hand, had been delighted when I'd told her over the phone. She was in a Travelodge just outside Honiton. She'd had a bad day. One of the doves had died and the other was too depressed to perform. To fill the gap she'd had to re-instate the trick where she saws an audience member in half. The last time she'd tried it there'd been an accident which had nearly doubled her insurance premium.

‘Don't use a real saw this time, Mum,' I advised.

‘I know,' she snapped.

‘Ask her what she wants for tea when she's back on Friday,' Dad called from the kitchen.

‘Dad wants to know what you want for tea on Friday,' I said.

‘Ooh,' she said. ‘Tell him I'd like a nice bit of pork.'

‘I'm not telling him that.'

‘But that's what I want.'

‘Don't do this to me, Mum,' I whispered.

‘Tell him,' she insisted.

‘Mum says she wants a bit of pork,' I called to Dad, bracing myself.

‘OK, but what does she want for dinner?' he replied, in stitches.

‘So  …  knitting,' Mum said, after she'd calmed down and I'd told her what I was doing this evening. ‘It's excellent for developing dexterity, for strengthening the fingers and for improving concentration. All useful skills for magicians.'

‘Also excellent training for that call centre job I'm hoping for after school,' I said.

‘Or for being a fighter pilot?'

‘Those are the three options I'm putting on my form on Careers Day,' I said. ‘Magician, Call Centre Slave or Fighter Pilot. I'd be happy with any of those.'

‘Good for you,' Mum said. ‘Look, gotta go, I need to sharpen my swords.'

I found Gex, Freddie and Joz in the park. They were sat on a low wall, in a row, staring into the car park at the back of Robert Dyas.

‘What's up?' I asked as I approached. They ignored me.

‘What you looking at?' I asked

‘There,' Joz said, impatiently, pointing.

I looked in the same direction as them but it wasn't immediately obvious.

‘What am I looking at?'

‘Just wait,' Freddie said.

‘Are you looking at that girl in the short skirt?' I asked.

‘Yes,' Freddie said.

‘The one with the cast on her leg?'

‘Yes.'

‘And the crutches?'

‘Yes.'

‘The one who's packing her shopping into her car boot?'

‘Yes!'

‘Why?'

‘Just wait, Bellend,' Gex snapped.

I sighed, sat and watched. Then I saw what they were looking at. The poor girl was having difficulty with her crutches. She didn't have a lot of room and her trolley was stuck behind a bollard, to the side of her car. She had to use her crutches to get to the trolley, then she'd pull a bag out, do a few awkward hops with one crutch back around to the boot, deposit the bag and go back for the next one. The problem was, she kept dropping her crutch. Each time she did, she had to lean forward to pick it up, doing a sort of balletic swoop and swinging her bad leg up as she did, which afforded the four of us an excellent view up her skirt. She was wearing black knickers.

‘You guys are sick,' I said, craning my head to the side.

‘She's gorgeous,' Joz said.

‘You're taking advantage of a vulnerable girl with a broken leg,' I pointed out. ‘You should be helping her.'

‘She doesn't know we're watching. And she's managing just fine,' Freddie said. ‘She dropped it again!'

‘Butterfingers,' Gex said appreciatively.

‘How can she drive with that cast on her leg?' Joz wondered out loud.

‘She's amazing,' Gex said.

‘She is pretty,' I admitted. ‘And really graceful.'

And that's pretty much all we did today. Freddie recorded a bit of the show and after the poor girl had driven off we sat around and watched it for a while until his phone ran out of battery.

I really need to find myself some better friends.

Here's a different scenario. After a few knitting classes, Miss Swallow realises I'm struggling. I'm a man, knitting isn't my thing, but I'm determined to carry on. I may be masculine and rough around the edges, but I also have a more sensitive side and I want to fully explore my own creativity. Miss Swallow recognises these qualities and finds herself drawn to me, despite the age difference.

After class she asks if I can stay behind and help her ravel the yarn, or catalogue the knitting needles, or shear the sheep or something. I agree, after quickly glancing at my expensive watch. We get to chatting, laughing at each other's knitting jokes, discussing the recent editorial in
Crochet!
magazine. I hand her a ball of yarn and our fingers touch, our eyes meet, and then she looks away shyly.

OK, it's unlikely, but I like to deal in possibles, not probables. Probables are depressing.

First knitting class tomorrow evening. Feeling a bit nervous. Freddie asked me if I wanted to come over and watch a new slasher film called
Hovel
after school and I had to think of an excuse. I told him I had liver fluke.