Putting a parcel in the post

Tonight I have been packing up four 10" squares for Florence Knitingale's blanket project, having finally come to the conclusion that crochet Wasn't Going To Happen. I tried several times (I hope the scars aren't too obvious on the squares) but could not produce anything that looked like a suitable edge for joining to other squares. I hope she doesn't mind too much.

These aren't necessarily my best pieces of knitting, four squares of leftovers and oddments, whipped out in odd moments between dissertation panics, but they are possibly the pieces into which I have put most love. My grandfather was Cornish, the son of an engineer at Levant, a mine which had its own tragedies. I live on the Norfolk coast now, in a town where many men work "offshore". Offshore means gas and oil rigs far out in the North Sea. Offshore means only seeing Daddy once every few weeks. Offshore means never knowing if he will come back this time. It's one of the most dangerous industries in Britain these days.

So just because I have a husband whose work is safe on shore, above ground, and I can be pretty sure he'll come home from work every day, doesn't mean I'm unaware of how many people aren't so lucky. There are too many tragedies in the world, and no-one could knit blankets for them all. But for this one I had to.