Confessions of a Knot‑tying Amateur
Confessions of a Knot‑tying Amateur
*— a tongue‑in‑cheek diary from somebody who thinks a bow‑tie is a “circular strip of embarrassment” and has only ever managed the pirate’s “no‑x‑bare‑ho‑or‑p” in the pub.
1. The False‑Start
I read on the back of a biscuit wrapper that “to tie a basic knot is to create a link that will never let go.” My first attempt was a perfect, symmetrical thing you’d see on the lid of a wine bottle. I thought I’d mastered the art, until I used it to secure my lunch. Believe it or not, the ham sandwich also came with a butter stent that refused to stay in place. I was forced to lesson I’d learnt: there are two kinds of knots – structural and culinary.
2. The Square‑Knot Conundrum
I was told the square‑knot was the “royal standard” for tying shoelaces, the very same sort one would see in a Harry Potter spoiler sheet. But what travels around the world in a tongue‑inked dog‑sized foot is only a cross‑knot with a single turn. With no training other than watching The Office in 3‑D, I smoothed the last cross‑knot and – boom – a loop curled around my ankle. I had turned my leg into the centrepiece of a shipwreck.
3. The Bow‑Tie Drama
A casual wish to ‘look sharp’ for a cocktail party set me on a spiral journey. I bought a naked silk ribbon in Swansea, hopeful. “Just slide the ends over, twist, and pull,” I read. I did exactly that, only to find the ends outnumbered each other by five pages of TV Times. Fabulous. The final result looked like a badly‑draped scotch and was grasped, at best, by the collective extended hand‑generals of the crappy bartender.
4. The “Celtic” knot integrally mis‑used
My neighbour taught me a “Celtic” knot for a simple lake‑walking scarf, and I managed to tie a blow‑hole that could double as a fire extinguisher. Behind the meridians of her wisdom was a subtle suggestion: the knot’s edges must be firmly reciprocated. Apparently, I left the culprit more like a twisted yarn affair: the scarf looked the way a toddler might call the junk food in a cartoon.
5. The Masterpiece of the Rope Well
Once, to prove my ingenuity, I ventured into an indoor climbing wall with a rope that decided to disdain all my efforts. The rope snaked my hand, only to retreat and transform into a twisted ball that looked like a disgruntled dragon. To be fair, I could hold the end into the centre of the banana‑ripe fruit I had just found at the back of my fridge and consider it an achievement. Standing alongside the others at the club’s meeting, over a bi‑annual barbecue, the strap tied around our cheeks was a fitting tribute to our shallowness.
Epilogue: The Tidy Exit
What have I learned? That the act of tying a knot is fundamentally a metaphor for hope: we shape a simple loop and anticipate that it will resist what once separated us. In my own case, these loops tend to break, fall, or get wrapped around my boot. My ‘confessions’ ought to serve as a cautionary tale – and a reason for my friends to offer me a pint of the best lager in the local pub. They will say: “Look at that, we’ve finally solved the knot‑confidence problem.”
Bottom line: I’ll continue my knot‑rye, but for now, please consider this an open‑handed call: call the parks department, because I’m sure you’re stuck with a cultural line‑artian situation. And if you look at me tying a rope to a beck, consider it an accidental art exhibit – after all, who better to contribute to a post‑industrial knot‑culture park than I? Cheers!
