So. Nothing going on now at all in infertility land. Nada. Zip. Diddly-squat. We wait. And wait. And hang about, and sigh, and twiddle out thumbs. Bah.
H commented, the other day, as I motored my way grimly through my lovely step-mother’s Birthday Socks, that I was knitting a lot more these days. I’m not entirely sure what tone of voice he was meaning to use, and decided not to pursue it (as I’m all apathetic, remember?), but it seemed a little wistful. Possibly because I have turned the living room into an utter minefield of little sharp stabby double-pointed needles, lurking in bundles of sock yarn and pretending the whole thing is nice and squishy.
And anyway, yes, I am knitting a lot more. Partly because I have become better at it. Partly because nice yarn, nice free patterns, and nice knitting sites and blogs are at last everywhere and very inspirational. And largely, alas, it is true, largely because it helps that I can actually make something useful, attractive, and wanted.
And if that’s not the most self-pitying, snivelling piece of whining tosh you’ve read in a long time, then poor you, what in hell have you been reading?