HOPE. GRATITUDE. DISGUST.
Hello, lovely people.
It has been suspiciously quiet in the home of James and Dr Thomas this week.
Dr Thomas has been going off to the ward, being clever and medically useful, while I have been hiding from the heat in my office, working on what I am calling McIntosh 2.0.
That is the new website I am hoping to launch in September.
I say “website”, but it has now grown so much that it may soon require its own postcode, local council and branch of Greggs.
Meanwhile, orders came in. Products came in. Orders went out. Products went out.
It was a lovely little rhythm of parcels, yarn and accessories as we quietly prepared for all the wonderful autumn and winter projects ahead.
And I have had three words on my mind this week:
Hope. Gratitude. Disgust.
Let us begin with hope.
As this email arrives on Sunday, the new financial year is two days old and McIntosh has officially entered its sixth year.
I will also be somewhere in the middle of the annual stock check.
If you were to visit our house, you would find stock occupying two spare bedrooms, two cupboards and the space behind the sofa.
There are crochet hooks, knitting needles, wool, yarn and accessories everywhere.
The stock now owns more property than I do.
But as I count it all, I will be feeling hopeful.
There is a new website coming. There are new projects taking shape. There is energy, excitement and a sense that something rather wonderful is beginning.
Then comes gratitude.
Some of you know my story.
A few years ago, homophobia in my native Northern Ireland left me in bed with what was diagnosed as a moderately severe depressive episode.
For part of that year, I was unable to move. It was a catatonic state. The fear, panic and anxiety were so dark that an entire year disappeared from the middle of my life.
Homophobia had told me that I was wrong. That God hated me. That I was a sinner. That I was disgusting.
But all my heart knew was love.
And then I began to knit.
A stitch became a breath.
A breath became a feeling.
And slowly, stitch by stitch, I knitted myself back together.
I started McIntosh with £20.
Dr Thomas kept food on the table, warmth in the house and a roof over us, but that £20 was what I had that felt like my own.
Today, I have this wonderful business.
I have a house being slowly conquered by yarn. I have five years of memories, parcels, projects and extraordinary customers.
And I have you.
Hand knitting saved my life. That truth remains at the heart of McIntosh: making things with our hands can help us find our way back to ourselves.
For all of it, I am profoundly grateful.
Which brings us, naturally, to disgust.
Recently, restaurant menus have become rather poorly printed.
Small text has become unnecessarily small.
Labels have become blurry.
Obviously, this is a widespread typographical crisis and absolutely nothing to do with me.
Nevertheless, I went back to Specsavers.
The optician was lovely. We chatted. She asked me to read several things—and I noticed that much of the material used during the appointment was Specsavers’ own marketing.
Clever.
Even while testing your eyes, they are selling you glasses.
I read the little letters.
I stared into the bright lights.
I clicked the button whenever I saw the tiny flashing dots.
I answered the traditional question:
“Is it clearer with number one…or number two?”
Number one.
No, number two.
Actually, could I see number one again?
Perhaps number one.
I no longer know who I am.
Eventually, the optician sat back and prepared to deliver her verdict.
Dr Thomas later insisted that the news was perfectly normal.
This is exactly the sort of unhelpful response one gets from Dr Thomas when one is experiencing a genuine personal crisis.
Because the optician had said the word.
The dreadful word.
The word no man of 48 should be expected to hear without a chair, a cup of tea and immediate emotional support.
Apparently, I need…
VARIFOCALS.
Really.
