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Sock compost

Long-time readers of this blog (hi Mumini!) will know of my ongoing love/hate relationship with Cleckheaton’s Merino Supreme. It’s soft, squooshy and machine-washable, and the first yarn I bought ten balls of because that’s how much you need to make a jumper. Except it isn’t. Merino Supreme has the most ludicrously low meterage of any yarn I’ve ever bought and it has burnt me time and time again, as I’ve failed mid-project due to its crippling shortness. Weeping as I unravel, unravelling as I weep. I finally cracked the addiction last year by turning all my Merino Supreme into socks. Thick, aran-weight, boot socks as lush as cannelloni.

You'd think I'd feel worse about this.

Which I have now walked through. The dark purple ones are completely worn through at the heels and unravelling, and the light purple ones are hanging on by a ply. The whiny little voice that lives at the back of my brain piped up: “the rest of the wool is still good: just patch the heels!” Because, while she pretends to be on the side of frugality and careful planning, she’s actually all about just guilting me into having a really sucky time. These socks were wonderful, lush and warm and comfortable, and totally the right things for chilly feets for two winters. I wore them solidly and wore them to death, and yarn cannot hope for a nobler end.

Or can it? After all, wool is an organic substance, and although these kinds of proteins take a while to break down, break down they do! So these socks are going to a better place: the compost bin. Take that Merino Supreme. I win.

Disproportionately excited.

The best part about this — and let’s face it, when we’re talking about the personal satisfaction I feel in conquering a mythical battle by composting well-worn handknit socks at the end of their natural life, “the best part” is a bit of a technicality — is that it creates a vacancy in the sock drawer. Given the number of sock yarns competitively shoving each other in the yarn cupboard, this is a very awesome development.

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