It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman about to undergo a cycle of fertility treatment, must be in want of distraction.
Over the weekend, I attended a 'learn to knit' workshop. I can now cast on, knit, purl, cast off and read a simple pattern. Armed with this new knowledge, I plan to make a scarf. Secretly, I imagine myself as Madame Defarge from Charles Dickens's French Revolutionary novel A Tale of Two Cities. Madame Defarge was one of those strong, revolutionary women who so fascinated and appalled nineteenth-century commentators such as Dickens. She incorporates into her knitting the names of those whom she considers to be enemies of the revolution, but as I click slowly away with my needles, I think of all those who have offered me their unsolicited assvice on the topic of my infertility - were I to include all of their names in my knitting, it would be a very long scarf!
Mr H is claiming a sudden allergy to anything made out of wool (my new-found hobby has uncovered some hitherto repressed memories of being forced as a child to wear a succession of misshapen, stratchy tank tops knitted for him by his grandmother). He is, however, currently re-reading the final Harry Potter novel, and so has taken to appropriating my knitting needles to use in the manner of a wand. 'Pregnum!' he exclaimed optimistically after dinner last night, pointing his makeshift wand in the direction of my abdomen. 'Prrrrregnum!'
Would that were all it took!