My Mom was always knitting something. A cheaper alternative to buying things, of course. And she fitted it in between her housework or, more likely, her paid employment of cleaning and skivvying.
I used to watch her, fascinated at seeing something take shape from her needles. Each time she “knocked-off” to do one of her other jobs, she would carefully count the stiches on her needles and, even more carefully, put her wool and needles safely away.
One day, having a sudden call of nature and having to go “down the yard” (there never was an indoor lavatory in our terrace), she counted her stitches and told me to “remember twenty” for her. I did so. And, when she came back, I told her “Twenty”.
It became as sort of standing-joke between us. Often – even when I had grown into my teens – I would see her sitting knitting and say “Twenty”.
Oddly enough, some six decades later, I often see Rosie knitting and think “Twenty”.