It’s fair to say that I am quite often at my very happiest when late Autumn rolls around. There is the gently, not-yet-scarily, looming prospect of Christmas. It is cold enough to warrant the additional layer of a blanket on the bed, or on the sofa, or in the chair, or, to be honest, any damn place I find myself wanting to layer on a blanket. Or two. Stews and soups and pies are back on the menu. Best of all, I am not expected to any gardening, whatsoever.
The weather obliges with fogs and mists that bead my hair and coat. Sunbreaks through clouds at odd angles and unexpected times, turning the very air golden. Leaves of such gorgeous colours, I want to wear them. Frost-rimed mornings that etch my surroundings with chilly silver-white. The river is high and muddied, swirling debris along at truculent speed.
Happiest of all the days are those when I can wake up, wriggle my toes against the cotton edge of my duvet, full to bursting with glee at the thought of a day all to myself, to fill with walks, cooking, reading and crafting. Crocheting, to be precise; my newly learned skill that, until recently, I was indulging in every moment I could, in the midst of woolly blanket-making happiness.
Back in August, I’d found the pattern on Attic 24, brought the wool, deciphered the instructions and looked up the stitches I didn’t know on YouTube. And then I set too. Hooking with newly obsessed glee and quite indifferent to the odd twinge from my wrist.
As I watched the blanket grow from under my very fingers, I was aware that the pains in my right wrist were also growing in intensity and frequency. So I strapped it up and carried on crocheting. And then I woke one morning and couldn’t even hold a pencil. Slightly worried now, I stopped for a couple of weeks, watched the dust grow on my woolly pile and fretted.
That was at the end of August. It is now December and under doctors orders, I am still strapping my wrist up and avoiding as much fine motor work with my right hand as possible. Trying to open jars with my left hand. Getting my colleagues to open parcels for fear of slipping with my left and stabbing myself in the eye, as happened when I was cleaning the bath, only with a cloth, not a pair of scissors. Writing as little as possible. And, above all, absolutely utterly completely No Crochet.
What I have essentially done is given myself RSI. Crocheters wrist, like housemaids knee but with no pervy lord of the manor checking how well I’ve polished his fender. When people ask I tell them it’s an extreme crochet injury. Taking the wool to the max baby.
The Teen is now no longer getting a blanket for Christmas. She is suspiciously okay with the news.
Photos taken on a recent frosty morning walk. The patterns made never fail to fascinate.