Having recently being made redundant, I find myself, like a growing number of people, on the unemployment scrapheap.
Having being ousted from my cushy health and beauty journalist job, I’m suddenly having to contend with the rather less glamorous world of jobcentres and career advisors.
But it’s not all doom and gloom from the sofa of the jobless.
In between job hunting and firing off emails to disinterested editors, I’ve rediscovered the joy of time; when the thought of another application form becomes too much, I’m enjoying taking out my frustrations my kneading dough, stuffing my face with homemade cupcakes and, rather more half-heartedly, trying desperately to improve my knitting. I may well be the world’s worse knitter.
I’m still haunted by the tortuous weeks spent crocheting a scarf at school when my textiles teacher in exasperation yanked the thing out of hands and finished it herself. I thought, 20 odd years later I may have become better with needles and wool.
But I’ve unraveled what’s meant to be a scarf five times, and have now decided to turn a blind eye to holes in it. It’s dolely chic no?
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