I remembered why I'm knitting gloves as I drive them all to school. Frosty cold morning, frosty cold steering wheel, frosty cold fingers. Also, it makes me feel a little bit useful. Knitting is an apocalyptic survival skill.
I'm waiting for the mail lady to visit, in case this is the day she brings me a letter, a parcel, a notification that will change everything. For the good. It hasn't happened yet, but it might, and I just realised I'm living in a Samuel Beckett play.