Wendyl Nissen: Stocking stuffer-upper

Every so often I feel the urge to craft something. But then I reconsider.

"For goodness sake," I tell myself, "you have enough to do without tying yourself down to a craft project which will dominate your every waking moment, turn you into an obsessive and then you'll get sick of it and throw it in your undie drawer along with all the other unfinished change purses and serviettes you were once embroidering."

And then I found myself in The Warehouse. I don't know if anyone else does this, but sometimes when I'm really stressed I go to The Warehouse and just wander around.

For some reason I find the combined labours of several Third World countries endlessly fascinating and only once have I found myself stalked by the house detective.

And then I saw it. A lovely little craft kit with four balls of wool, a knitting pattern and a picture of a Christmas stocking in Fair Isle pattern. "Don't be sheepish!" said the label. "Your mates will love you!" And I immediately became inspired to knit a Christmas stocking for our granddaughter, Lila.

"Knitting. How quaint," said my husband when he discovered me hunched over 60 stitches of red and white madness. I had failed to notice the all-important word "advanced" in small print on the pattern. I am not an advanced knitter. I am, at best, a beginner who in her life has knitted three scarves, a hat, a horrible green jersey and several unspeakable baby jumpers. (One in the 80s involved threading bits of ribbon in an artistic way through the weave and, when placed on my daughter, made her look like a lump of cat vomit.)

"Shush, counting stitches. I seem to have lost quite a few."

"I'll just sit here and look at you for a while, if you don't mind."

I continued frantically searching for stitches which were there moments before.

"What are you doing?" I asked 10 minutes later when I noticed my husband was still in the room and staring at me in a way that, well, you sort of expect in the bedroom, not the lounge. And certainly not when spectacles are perched on your nose and you are sporting a permanent frown.

"Oh, nothing," he said, frustratingly flirtily.

"Haven't you got something you should be doing? Like playing with your new iPhone and showing me yet another useless application for a fart keyboard?"

"It's quite sexy, you know. Knitting. Quite nice."

I looked up suspiciously, not quite believing what I was hearing.

"Sexy? It's hardly black lace underwear, candles and soft music."

"Yes, but it's comforting," he replied. "Soothing, somehow."

"You really are a very odd man," I replied as I slipped a stitch and passed it over before realising I was supposed to be purling in white. "Go away."

My children were next, full of adoration and admiration. It has been quite some years since I have been on the receiving end of both those nouns. "Knitting is so cool," said one. "Look at that little white star in the pattern," said another, with just a hint of condescension.

I plodded on. I decreased in the wrong place, one side of the heel ended up in completely the wrong pattern and half the sock was knitted instead of purled. But I just didn't care. I was going to finish this craft project if it killed me. And so I soldiered on, mistakes and holes and missing stitches included.

"Stupid Warehouse," I said upon finishing, only to discover my adoring husband had been documenting the last five minutes of my efforts on his iPhone using his Hipstamatic application.

"You look gorgeous," he cooed.

My Christmas stocking ended up three shades of red, since the balls of wool were of slightly different shades. It looked nothing like the picture on the packet. But it was a sock and it would hold presents on Christmas Day, as long as they weren't too heavy.

"I think I'm ready to tackle a cardigan now," I said, encouraged.

"Great idea!" said my husband as he bundled me in the car and took me straight to the wool shop.