I have started learning to crochet.

My mum has always knitted or crocheted. I’ve grown up with things she’s made everywhere. I have loads of dolls’ blankets from when we were little, and there’s a huge, very mismatched blanket that I absolutely love. It’s not Pinterest-perfect or colour-coordinated. It’s just our blanket, and I think that’s probably part of why I’ve always liked handmade things.

I’d never actually tried crochet myself, though.

My sister-in-law Charlotte started learning in May and has absolutely flown with it. She’s already making cardigans, which feels frankly ridiculous when I can barely make a straight line, and she made Elizabeth the most beautiful bag for her birthday. Watching her go from never having done it before to actually making proper things definitely made me think, maybe I could do that.

I’m also just really sick of doom scrolling.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for half the time. I pick my phone up, scroll through Facebook, scroll through TikTok, see the same shit three times, put it down, then pick it back up ten minutes later and do it all again.

And I spend a lot of time waiting around in the car. Anyone with teenagers will understand this. You become a part-time taxi driver, except instead of getting paid, you get shouted at because you’re apparently two minutes late.

So I wanted something I could chuck in my bag and do while I was waiting. Something that didn’t involve staring at my phone and somehow ending up watching a video about a woman moaning about cleaning her house (yes, I watch The Austins – what can I say – I waste time watching absolute shite!)

A couple of weeks ago, while in Birmingham, I asked my mum to teach me.

I thought she’d show me a few things and I’d be off.

Absolutely fucking not.

Potentially having undiagnosed dyspraxia, combined with the fact that I’m incredibly cack-handed, meant it took me about an hour to get to grips with making a slipknot.

A slipknot.

It’s a fucking knot.

My mum would show me. I’d watch. I’d think, yeah, got it.

Then she’d hand the wool to me and suddenly I’d apparently never seen hands before. My brain was telling my hands to do one thing. My hands just did their own thing.

Eventually, I got it.

Then came the chain stitch.

That was another fucking battle.

But I was determined.

I bought a crochet kit from Amazon with all the basics, and since that Sunday I’ve spent pretty much every spare second having another go. I don’t know if it’s stubbornness or determination. Probably both.

Tuesday morning, I still couldn’t do a chain stitch.

By Tuesday night, I could.

It was wonky, far too tight and looked absolutely nothing like a proper chain, but I didn’t care. I could do it.

By Wednesday, I’d actually cracked it. I could sit there and do chain stitches without having to stop and think about what I was supposed to be doing every two seconds. The tension was still a bit shit, but I figured that could come later.

Then Thursday, I decided I was ready for the next stitch.

Double crochet.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I cried.

I swore.

I got frustrated.

I tried it over and over again and could not get my hands to do what my brain was telling them to do. It was one of those things that looked ridiculously simple when my mum did it, and then completely impossible when I tried.

But Thursday night, I got it.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. Definitely not neatly.

But I got the technique.

Now I just need to practise until I can do it without feeling like I need complete silence and the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

The weird thing is, I think I’m learning more from crochet than just how to make stitches.

I’m learning patience.

I’m not patient. At all.

I like being good at things. I like figuring things out. And I don’t like that stage where you’re trying something new and you’re absolutely shit at it.

But I’m having to accept that I won’t immediately be good at crochet. I might not ever be brilliant at it.

And that’s actually okay.

Because I couldn’t do a chain stitch on Tuesday morning.

By Tuesday night, I could.

I couldn’t do a double crochet on Thursday morning.

By Thursday night, I could.

The only reason either of those things changed is because I kept trying, even when I was getting frustrated and even when I was convinced I was just too cack-handed to ever get it.

Harrison is learning too, and annoyingly, he’s picked it up quite quickly.

He’s with my mum for ten days at the moment, so he’s got a full-time crochet teacher while I’m at home trying to remember which way the bloody yarn goes.

But I actually love that we’re both learning.

I have no idea what I’m going to make yet. I’m a long way from cardigans and beautiful handmade bags. At the moment, I’m just making increasingly less wonky rows and trying to get my tension under control.

But I’m enjoying it.

I’m putting my phone down more.

I’m doing something with my hands.

I’m using those random hours sitting in the car waiting for teenagers for something other than scrolling through crap I won’t remember five minutes later.

And I’m learning that sometimes you’re just going to be shit at something.

You can cry about it.

You can swear at it.

You can put the bloody crochet hook down and storm off for five minutes if necessary.

But if you keep picking it back up, eventually something might click.

And honestly?

I’m quite excited to see what I manage to make.

Watch this space…