Who is Wanaka's "Knitsy", the colourful and anonymous yarn-bomber whose very public works include cupcackes, breasts, fake dog droppings tree pom-poms, downpipe scarves and handrail warmers? Wanaka reporter Marjorie Cook consults the local Stitch n' Bitch knitting circle.
For the record, Ms Manson says she's not Knitsy, although she accepts she is "fibre-aware".
Wanaka's Stitch'n Bitch knitting circle instigator is a partner in the Artisans Studio collective and the co-ordinator of Wanaka's regular summer craft markets.
Clearly, she is well-placed to know many Knitsy types but is not willing to spill the beans.
"As far as I know, there's three different crews doing it and none know who the others are. It is growing organically. I do know one is overseas now ... It's a movement rather than a person," she says.
Wanaka became conscious of the guerrilla knitter (or knitters) in its midst in the middle of April.
By the time International Yarn Bombing Day dawned on June 11, many yarn bombs had been dropped.
On the big day, seven peggy squares spelling out "I (heart) Wanaka" were stolen from the Helwick St bollards and have never been seen again.
Ms Manson started the second annual season of "Stitch'n Bitch" (named after a knitting magazine) in May.
"It was all older people but as it's gone on, it's got younger and younger," Ms Manson explained, when the Otago Daily Times joined the circle at the Uno Bar for an evening recently.
Lots of knitters have popped by to seek advice on a project and never come back. Others have continued to drop in because they enjoy connecting with people they wouldn't normally meet, she says.
A hard-core group of overseas university students have proved sticklers for the regular Tuesday night meetings because, Ms Manson believes, they feel more comfortable in bars.
They have also been working on skifields or in cafes so don't have time to hang out at creative fibre groups during the day.
Wellington landscape gardener Scott Claridge has been a regular for the last two seasons.
"It is interesting older people don't seem to be coming. It could be the perception knitting is a youth thing," he says.
Mr Claridge attends because he enjoys making things and finds the circle entertaining.
But while he is happy to knit publicly in Wanaka, he stitches under the radar at home and has not joined the knitting circle at his Wellington local.
The night this reporter attends, Ms Manson has brought a chocolate cake to celebrate the last night for some of the overseas contingent, who are going home.
Ms Manson says the circle regulars are oblivious to most of Knitsy's escapades.
"They are here to ride [snowboards] and not particularly aware of current affairs ... Occasionally someone will mention it," she says.
I put it to the test with Esther Sprague (22), of Melbourne.
"Knitsy ...," I begin.
"Oh, yeah ..." she says, as if she might be about to admit some knowledge.
But then her eyes dart away to the wool another member is using.
"Where did you get that orange colour? It's sick. It's so rad," she says. So much for current affairs.
"I got it in Queenstown, a budget yarn," he replies.
And the conversation moves on to more important topics, such as the high cost of possum wool and how good it is that another group member, a Melbourne nurse, has had to rush home suddenly "to do a presentation", because Miss Sprague has been able to get her wool.
They are being teased for racking up a $20-a-week habit.
They have been discouraged from knitting scarves because, Ms Manson says, it's a known fact that "people who start scarves don't finish them".
Scarf knitters are not alone.
One girl (absent on this particular night) has been crocheting a cat and after starting her project six times, now has an armless, legless cat in a pink frock, Ms Manson says.
Hannis Whittam, a 21-year-old Cambridge University engineering student, says he joined Stitch'n Bitch because he needed professional help.
An injury in early August suddenly ended his ski season, but it was too much hassle to change his flights and go home, and with the Rugby World Cup on, there was no point.
He bought tickets to watch England play at Otago Stadium in Dunedin instead and took up knitting, after meeting two girls at Ohau skifield who showed him how.
He has found it all very therapeutic, has made more than 15 hats and also tackled a pair of leg-warmers for his dancer girlfriend at home in England.
Mr Whittam's big worry is whether the leg-warmers might fall down but he is reassured that will not happen after consulting Ms Manson about how to put elastic around the tops.
"I never knitted before this holiday ... and took a lot of stick from the boys in my house until they gave in to temptation. One of them jumped in the car and drove straight to the knitting shop and bought some needles," he says.
Alex Handy (21), a Cambridge history and management student, didn't knit the mustard yellow hat he has worn to his first - and only - Stitch'n Bitch meeting.
He has only come along because he is living with three knitters and while twisting wool on to a plastic pom-pom maker, Mr Handy confesses that now he's completed his ski instructing qualification, he does not want to return to university and is keen to go to Canada.
"It [skiing] is now an insurance policy in case the world implodes and I hate work.
I will go ski instructing," Mr Handy says.
Miss Sprague, who recently completed a double degree in economics and German at Melbourne's Monash University and works in a Wanaka cafe, wants a life of less work and more knitting.
As she pulls apart her first beanie (she feels it is "a bit dodgy") she explains that knitting is cheaper than a skifield season pass or drinking and gets her out of the house.
She will be sad to go home but happy because she will be taking six hats with her, she says.
"I don't want to get a real job yet. I'd like to play around a bit, keep travelling, follow the ski seasons, take it easy for a little while, do more knitting," Miss Sprague says.
Mr Whittam's Cambridge University friends Ryan Warnock (20) and Lydia Mills (19), who study psychology and art history respectively, arrive just as Mr Claridge begins cutting the chocolate cake.
They are late because Mr Warnock had to scour the house for Mr Whittam's hats, which he forgot to bring to the meeting, and there were large piles of dirty underwear to sift through, he complains.
Mr Warnock has a skiing injury too - "I hurt my finger falling off a rail" - but it has not prevented him knitting.
Both men have worked up hats in blue and white, the colours of the Cambridge University Ski and Snowboard Club, and intend to wear them when the club next visits a "giant fridge" in Milton Keynes (it's an all-year-round indoor snow facility with 120m-long runs).
"It's not very long and very boring but every Friday and Saturday night they build a lot of jumps and rails, which is what we go for," Mr Whittam explains.
Talk turns to bad Scottish poetry. Ms Manson has used a book of McGonagall's odes to make pom-poms, but thinks plastic pom-pom makers work better, even though the instructions are in Japanese.
Mr Handy uses one for his first pom-pom, over which Ms Manson casts an expert eye as she trims it with scissors.
"It's definitely a dense pom," she pronounces.
"And when we put a pom-pom on a hat, what do we hate?" she asks the circle.
"Wobbly pom-poms," they chorus.
