Thou art more creative and hobbymaxxist

Once the euphoria of 11am rises had waned and the ecstasy of not having a constant essay-shaped pit in my stomach had worn off, I recognised a distinct lack of purpose in myself and the extended daylight hours. Hence why I decided to become more creative and hobbymaxxist.

We’ve all been there: your Amazon cart is loaded up with £40 worth of 3mm glass seed beads, collapsible needles, and twelve yards of fabric in order to satiate the desire to become the best bead embroidery-er ever seen, simply because your Pinterest board told you it’s possible. And if you haven’t been there, what are you doing? This is an annual summer ritual for me and, year on year, my aspirations become more ambitious.

Trading fifteen CATS for fifteen crocheted cats with mittens that nobody needs but finds oh so endearing has taught me lots of lessons

In recent months, I’ve taken up crochet. I’ve swapped having a word count for a stitch count. Although, I cannot claim that this transition has brought me any more peace. There is an existential rage that can be reached when you realise you’ve increased and decreased incorrectly and your micro bumble bee plushie looks more like lumpy drinks coaster than a heartfelt gift for your sister. Nevertheless, the glee I observe in myself when I show my unbothered family members my sock-esque animals is unmatched.

Trading fifteen CATS for fifteen crocheted cats with mittens that nobody needs but finds oh so endearing has taught me lots of lessons. Such as the level of patience it requires in undoing a yarn knot that your 100% cotton skein has vomited out and has halted your project beyond belief. Or the sheer determination that is needed to get a few loops in on any form of public transport in a heatwave. Or as your yarn runs away from you at any chance it gets and you’re sweating out of every orifice which is causing the dye to seep into your brand-new denim shorts. This is a totally fictional scenario and unspecific to me (H&M’s Best: gone but not forgotten).

This column advocates for romanticising your summer, and who said that blisters from crochet hooks wasn’t romantic?

This is the summer of creating so that every grandparent can receive a crocheted item at Christmas time and you’ve got the calluses to prove it. I only hope that Grandad likes Y2K tank tops with open backs as that is all I currently have in my repertoire.

There’s nothing better than investing your whole summer into a new creative endeavour. One that becomes your whole personality only to die a painful, silent death come autumn. When laptops become part of your daily routine again and somewhere along the way you must use your beading needle as a bookmark instead of a portal into your summer-self where creation trumped consumption. Cynicism aside, this column advocates for romanticising your summer, and who said that blisters from crochet hooks wasn’t romantic? I’m sure Romantic poet Percy Shelley said something about looking upon one’s works in admiration. So go forth and create ye Mighty, and despair!