A few weeks ago I started a crochet blanket. Not that I can afford enough wool for a blanket, but the reality is that I bought the materials over a year ago and then toyed with them for many months. Projects often work out like this; they have to go through a period of gestation that is completely incomprehensible to people whose idea of ‘creating’ is confined to following one of Nigella’s recipes, or reading Genesis from the Bible. Now the gestation is over and the blanket is coming along nicely.
I was at it all weekend and managed to add a very respectable three inches to it, which is a lot, really, if you consider that I started with twenty-seven little chains and I now have three hundred. It takes me ages to do one row. As the clocks went back last night and we stayed holed up both yesterday and today, autumn and light closing in outside, it seemed only natural to speed along with hook and yarn and tea and sweeties. I have also made a start on the second book I need to work on. This is in vastly better shape and, dare I say it, gripping stuff too. In fact, I am as hooked on that as I am on the blankie.