THERE’S nowt, I’ve heard, as queer as folk. But then, I haven’t heard a platypus: those things are truly bonkers. The incomparable strangeness of our wonderful race, though, is, by definition, what makes us special.

Our consciousness allows for expression beyond that of basic functionality and since we, for the most part, no longer spend our waking hours stalking a lunch that doesn’t even bring its own dressing, our attention and energies are driven in more creative directions.

Of course, with extra capacity comes extra introspection.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so anxious had I been born without such diligent dendrites. I’m pretty sure Homo habilis didn’t fret over the relative size of his tools day-to-day. But then neither did it have space in its developing braincase to concoct the sheer, excessive joy that is guerrilla knitting.

Guerrilla knitting, as the name suggests, is the art of forming resistance out of finely-spun sheep fibres. Wait, I may have been too literal in my perception. In fact, you don’t have to be a fighter for any freedoms to join this particular movement – but the berets are encouraged.

Otherwise known as yarn-bombing, yarn-storming or graffiti knitting, the practice of turning urban landscapes into cosy art installations is attributed to American crafters with more wool than wherewithal and a passion for hand-stitched fashion.

Since the early 2000s, knitters and crocheters alike have been putting aside their patterns and taking their skills out of the studio and on to the streets. Phone boxes, bridges, even the odd park bench have been made odder still, adorned with purpose-crafted winter-wear, designed to put the knit back into the nitty-gritty of city life.

Clandestine clubs across the world have woven together to fleece the world, and while the artwork itself, if installed without permission, is technically illegal, any prosecution for such beautification would surely be a stitch-up.

As with any undercover operation, my first consideration was what exactly the cover could go over. While I’ll happily claim needle proficiency of which Cleopatra would be envious, the prospect of building a cashmere coliseum single-handedly filled me with dread. For one thing, how exactly would I hold the other pin? I’ve never been a crocheter – the only hooks I respect are captains – but learning to knit wasn’t so much a rite of passage as a birthright, handed on to me, as I’m pretty sure it was, in the amniotic fluid. But though my purl is plainly passable, I’m hardly the speediest stocking stitcher, so my options for scale weren’t exactly weighty. Never one to miss an opportunity for appalling wordplay though, making jumpers for goalposts seemed like the perfect solution.

Sticking to my home turf, I scouted Glasgow’s east end for a set of goals suitable for my, well, objective. As moving the goalposts goes, it seems my local parks have changed the state of play completely, since all their pitches are fenced in nowadays.

But since it didn’t seem in keeping with the spirit of the operation to get the go-ahead, I just went ahead and found somewhere else instead: a neglected football field at the back end of nowhere. For my game, it was just the ticket.

At 24ft by 8ft, the order couldn’t exactly be filled by the petite department, but it’s difficult to be shy of a challenge when you meet one every week.

Enlisting the expert support of my mum, whose knitting know-how needs no noting, I casted on for what I thought might be my most civilised adventure yet. Four weeks, 50 balls of wool and a strained parental relationship later and any element of sophistication has gone the way of the shoulder pad.

And then there was the exhibition. As it turns out, attaching 40ft of cardigan to public sports equipment in the suspended drizzle isn’t exactly without its issues. While I’m vast in cheer and chutzpah, even at low tide I’m barely above sea level so, in spite of a complicated system of stepladders and swearing, the installation was darn difficult.

Passed by dog walkers and morning strollers, whose bemusement fuelled my enthusiasm, I wrestled with my work of heart for almost 40 minutes, until its arrangement met my vision of both form and perspective. Fine. I was happy as soon as the ends and middle weren’t trailing in the mud.

By design, graffiti knitting pieces are transitory; mine more so, given my complete lack of sticking power. Safety pins and prayer do not a lasting sculpture make.

I do wonder, though, if my efforts were even noticed over the 12 hours or so in which they were on display. Seventy stitches over 3760 rows; the mental arithmetic isn’t nearly as taxing as were the aerial acrobatics that its hanging required – or the yarn VAT.

But, one thing’s for sure, the difference those fuzzy stripes made to that cold city furniture was anything but woolly.