The Weaver

It was a Sunday afternoon when The Weaver was born. The grey skies of England dampened the day and in this dourness, the most unprepossessing superhero or supervillain, depending on how you feel about knitwear, of modern times came into existence.

Reeling from an embarrassing encounter where she had been ridiculed in a pair of crocheted trousers, she picked up her hook, watching a shopping channel as they advertised "The Neutral Look", blandness being the fashion statement of the moment.

Remembering the cruel jibes of passing pedestrians, pointing and laughing because any sort of homemade items were risible, she seethed as she wove yarn into a multi-coloured pageant of acrylic squares. The rhythm mesmerised her and The Weaver was transported into a sub-dimension whereby every knitted item she made could be transposed onto the object of her enmity, or indeed her desire.

Working furiously, when she came out of her stitch-induced superhuman reverie she discovered the models on TV in garish knitwear complaining about how much they itched. They also looked disgusted. The Weaver thought they looked rather nice.

She didn't know it was her superpower until the man that she fancied at the newsagent who she had dreamed about the night before appeared behind the counter wearing a fisherman's sweater and some rather tight knitted long johns, a fantasy she had had about him for some time. He looked incredibly hot - to her, because of her desire; to him, because of the tightness of the weave and its closeness to his skin.

Her creations turned, and continue to turn the world on its head. Some were repulsed, but all were startled by the randomness of the knitted assault, no-one knowing the origin. To this day, her identity remains unknown. She is particularly prevalent at Christmas.