Lady, you have a knitted animal on your head

by little red pen

How I know I’m in a small city; how I know I’m home:

  • There’s a lot of novelty wet-and-cold-weather gear. Knitted animals are a particular feature.
  • There’s a lot of woollen wear full-stop. I start putting in knitting orders to my sister and scour my wardrobe for big jerseys.
  • People socialise at home. Cups of tea and bowls of soup are good. Children create minor havoc as the backdrop to most conversations.
  • We’re in the middle of a solid week of rain. When this stops, we’ll get bright skies or snow or more rain.
  • The chance of bumping into an old friend in the supermarket, gardens, library, or museum is high. Close to 100%. The chance of catching someone’s eye and knowing that you know them but having no idea where they fit into your life is also high. One of these people (we refer to him as “that guy”) introduces himself to me and my sister in other places (Melbourne, Stewart Island, etc) and says that he always saw us around in Dunedin, but he’s never introduced himself here. We consistently fail to recognise him.
  • People remember me as a child. I remember me as a child.
  • Nature is just outside the door.
  • There’s a memory trace on most every street.
  • The sound of the rain is like belonging.