At ten I painstakingly learned to knit when Mrs. Birch introduced class 3 girls to the art of knitting tea cosies. (The boys went to woodwork and made plant stands.) The tea cosies were knitted in stripes. Mine was blue and yellow. The stitches were too tight, my hands were sweaty and my wool sticky.
My efforts were inspected by Mrs. Birch, who went tut, tut, with her tongue.

When you’d finished you were allowed to make a pom-pom for the top. I never got to make the pom-pom, but I knew how to do it.

That grey spring, just after the war, one of the women’s magazines published a knitting pattern for a child’s cardigan, embroidered with a medley of brightly coloured flowers, tied at the neck with a woollen cord and two pom-poms.

All the mothers knitted, except mine. Each day, in class, a new cardigan would appear.

At night I dreamed of soft wool and bright flowers. I longed for one of the cardigans and I cried myself to sleep with the knowledge that I’d never have one.

I made the cord and pom-poms anyway with the wool from the unravelled tea cosy, and wore them to school. The other girls laughed. I got into trouble for that. Mrs. Birch said I misused school wool! I pretended that I didn’t care.

Josie had the best cardigan; sky blue with yellow and pink flowers. I hated her with her soft cardigan and little white socks. Her mother was a brilliant knitter: you could tell she really loved Josie.

After school Josie walked home in the same direction. I was spiteful to her. I was mean and jealous because she had everything. I felt awful but I still did it. Finally her mum complained and Mrs. Birch told me off.

When I read about children who steal to buy designer jeans or trainers, or who bully other