One of us confessed recently, without being prompted, that the first knitted throw she ever bought for this office cost more than the sofa it sat on and looked worse after two weeks. Nobody forced her confession. She just blurted it out one Tuesday, like she’d been harboring the secret for years, which, honestly she probably had. Here’s the thing: nobody warns you about that, before you buy a knit throw. It seems like it’s supposed to be the easiest purchase in the world, a soft rectangle, how hard could it be? And then it arrives and it’s either the soul of the room or it’s shedding wool down the sofa arm like it’s trying out for a grimmer purpose.
We can’t agree on knit-weaves either.
Half of us loves nothing more than a chunky throw you could curl up inside and never emerge from, cable knit, the kind of throw that weighs roughly the same as your average spaniel.
The rest of us thinks that, once you reach a certain heft, you stop having a throw and start having a blanket too big for your house thinks thinks is ruining every piece of furniture it touches on principle.
Colour makes its own case for itself.
Cream looked perfect against every background we photographed it against for days, then met children, wine glasses and leftovers. We have since accepted -because we will never learn, otherwise – that oatmeal will forgive you anything cream will reveal to your guests.
On the topic of actually using your throw instead of photographing it: we can agree, quite unanimously, that if you’re not using it wrong, you’re not using it at all. Dragging it off the couch and onto the floor.
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Leaving it bunched up at the end of your bed.
Taking it outside for one magical evening in March and unleashing a texture demon you can never, ever tame again.
If your throw looks like it did the day you bought it after you’ve loved it for a year, you haven’t loved enough, that’s not a knit throw, that’s bedroom set decoration.
There is one knit-test we’ll all swear by, no matter how brief our time as colleagues causes this newsletter to grow. Run it across your own sleeve before you buy. If it snags, if it feels angry and heavy, take it back. The good stuff feels like you can forget you’re even touching it at all. After four winters, two offices moves and countless coffee spills that’s still the test that reigns supreme for us.
We do split on whether a throw should have a fringe. Some of us will argue all day that a little fringe detail is the only thing that elevates a knit from “whatever, I guess that’ll do” to “I knew what I was looking for when I walked in here today.” Others will argue down their literal throats that fringe means tangled knots in your future and they have spent too many holidays proving that point.
So yeah: take your knit however you like. There’s not vaseasy consensus here and we’re not going to deliver one even if you. Buy it because it feels good on your own arm, not because it looked good on Instagram on someone else’s living room furniture and prepare for at least one of us to regret our opinion for a few months before we finally admit we were wrong.
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