Alexandra Brown - The Great Christmas Knit Off

I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.

The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.

A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.

With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky West End, mainly frequented by celebrities’. Oh good-o, I shall rest easy armed with this important piece of trivia. Not. But part of me is thinking: good on you, Jennifer, I’m not sure I could resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.

A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.

And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.

A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been reprimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.

I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’m the bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!

I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.

I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …

I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.

‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.

Keep calm and carry yarn.

That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun , and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.