Three times in the past week someone has said to me, "You knit, don't you?" When I say no, there is a look of disbelief. "Really?" Really.

I don't knit. Why is this so shocking?

Maybe because I seem like the type of person who should knit. I don't look like the sort of person who should ski. Or the sort of person who should be married. But I bet it would hardly come as a surprise if I were to reveal to someone I lived alone with a wicker basket of yarn near my bed. They wouldn't question it.

It's true I don't like to go anywhere or do anything - which I suppose is the ideal outlook for a dedicated knitter. I also like to sit, quietly, and not talk to people. This has Knitter written all over it.

Which is exactly why when a year ago, a friend suggested I try knitting, I decided to give it a shot. She kept insisting how "relaxing" it was.

And as I watched her clicking away - her hands moving a hundred miles an hour - with a beautiful cashmere scarf at the end, I thought, how hard can it be?

Turns out, hard. It's one thing to know how to knit. It's another thing to learn. I bought a book called "Teaching Little Fingers How to Knit" - essentially a teaching tool for 8 year olds. I couldn't follow. It took me hours to figure out how to make a slip knot. I was concentrating so hard I thought I'd have an aneurism. Plus, I was calling this friend and asking questions like, "Where does the yarn go?" It was humiliating.

Not only was I becoming discouraged and depressed that I couldn't pick it up, but I was starting to worry I might have a learning disability.

"You'll get it," my friend said. "It just takes practice."

If there's one thing I hate, it's practice. As soon as I know I have to practice something I can't look forward to it. It feels like a chore. I felt too, like knitting should come naturally. Like being musical - or having an affinity for language. Neither of which I have.

And therein lay the problem. Because if knitting could not come naturally, I didn't care enough to put in the time. Why? Because trying to do something well and failing isn't relaxing. It's stressful.

As soon as I picked up the needles I knew it was only a matter of time before I gave up. But everyone else seemed thrilled.

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