I've finished my blanket - a huge black and blue mound of knitted wool. My sister in law was baffled why I should want to knit this blanket, but I found it immensely therapeutic to knit.
And that's the thing. You see, I haven't measured it. I know that there is 2000g of wool, because that was how much was in the package. Well, I say wool but I wouldn't like to meet the sheep. I haven't folded it away. I haven't even cut off the remaining length. I don't care about finishing things. I only like starting things. I am about 400g into my next blanket.
It probably says something desperately profound about me. But all I can do is look in blank incomprehension when some kind soul says 'think how good it will feel when you finish it'. It will feel nothing. I will lose interest. I have a sweater that I started sewing up nearly 18 months ago. It only needs two seams doing. But then that is finishing off something, which is very dust and ashes compared to starting.
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