On Friday afternoon I was heading home from my volunteer job at the Midwives Collective of Toronto. It wasn't rush hour but it was busy enough for me not to have a seat between St. George and Broadview stations.
No biggie. I was knitting a pair of simple socks for a girlfriend that are long past due while I stood - I've blocked out the world by plugging myself into the iPod. Life is good.
I feel a knocking on my upper thigh and from the corner of my eye I see a cane retreating into the tight and righteous grasp of a man older than death. I unplug and ask if everything is ok. Old Man River proceeds to tell me that KNITTING ON THE TTC IS ILLEGAL. I cannot be knitting on the TTC. IT IS ILLEGAL.
The fact that I've been knitting on the TTC for years now doesn't phase him. The pussy pony purls that I'm using to knit the sock only inspire a demonstration of how my 2mm plastic needle could pierce his skin, go through his rib cage, and STOP HIS HEART DEAD.
At this point, I'm trying desperately to restrain my giggle and my sarcastic responses about how I can barely stick the needles through the wool never mind his angry chest - I tell him that if it will make him more comfortable I will put my sock away (we're also at my stop).
This is when the gaggle of Indian Grandmothers who have been giggling throughout the exchange, weigh in with their opinion that he could do more damage with his cane than I could with my sock.
He looked both shocked and appalled that so many women seemed to think that they were right. It was excellent.