I have often joked with people that knitting is what keeps my nose above water level. There’s the obvious meditative process, the silent number counting that stills the heart and focuses the breath – it’s impossible to be distracted by the silliness of life when you are focused on yarn and needle. There’s also the creative aspect of it, the imagining of a new garment, a twist of stitches here, a yarn substituted there. Like cracking the spine of a new book, there is something dizzy and delicious about casting on stitches, and dreaming of the rows to come. I’ve come to realise – particularly in these past weeks – that it’s the certainty of knitting that makes me return time and time again. If I knit this many stitches with this particular yarn, a specific type of fabric will emerge. If I knit two together and yarn over, or cable backwards and then forwards, a delicate lace will emerge. It’s a precise craft, a mathematical one, and I like the reliability of it. It’s a comfort, and one I’ve needed of late. Which is all to say that the water is at nose level. I know the water will fall, but please bear with me while I knit like a madwoman, and try and find my equilibrium again.