Milly Johnson

WHEN I was a child, my hands were never still. I had to be doing something. All my pocket money went on craft equipment: felt, cotton, pens, wool and paints. And I was always in the local library borrowing books on how to make things.

The childless old lady who lived next door to our little terraced house in Barnsley taught me how to knit and her husband worked in the paper mill, so I had no shortage of stocks of paper.

Because books were my passion, I used to write stories and then construct tiny, doll-sized books. I’d stitch the paper pages, cover the cardboard in fake leather, and paint the spine with tiny gold lettering.

Now I earn my living as a novelist, but my drive to make things is as strong as ever.

When I send my novels out as presents, they are packaged together with tiny gifts, themed to the stories, which I painstakingly make from clay – scones that could crowd on a penny, little ships, mini-Yorkshire puddings.

I even design ribbon, also themed to the books, and have it made in China.Though if I could make it myself, I would.

And it all started with those childhood crafting experiments. So it’s no surprise to me that people have increasingly got creative in lockdown.

I spent every school summer holiday constructing things. I once made a whole baker’s shop out of a crisp box and sheets of felt, stitching tiny éclairs, loaves and birthday cakes. I even made the cash register, and banknotes out of tracing paper.

Madness maybe, but I derived an awful lot of pleasure from all those microscopic

‘In the New Romantic era, I had the best ruffles in Barnsley when we went into town at weekends’

stitches. And my family indulged me by buying me craft sets, paints and pens for birthday and Christmas presents.

Dad bought me a New Home sewing machine when I was 12, much better than the lady next door’s old treadle footoperated Singer machine.

To earn some pin money I’d stitch teddy bears from offcuts of fur I’d bought from the market to sell at school – until my mother rumbled me and put a stop to my enterprise. I did try to tell her that even Margarete Steiff, the famous German teddy bear maker, had to start somewhere, but to no avail.

Later, a Saturday job in Littlewoods earned me enough to buy material, needles, and – deep joy – a dressmaker’s mannequin.

I moved on to making my school skirts and then, when I was a little older and the New Romantic era arrived, frilly white shirts.

I had the best ruffles in Barnsley when we went out into town at weekends. When I stumbled across a “how to make fancy dress” book in the library, I was beside myself with joy. I think I renewed it over and over for a year.

I followed the instructions to make the Cleopatra costume for one Christmas party at college, complete with cardboard snake and a black wig.

It was so good, the lad I’d fancied for two years asked me out. Sadly the snake lasted longer than he did, but that one evening was magic. And I won the prize for best costume – a bottle of Pomagne cider.

I could have set up a shop with the fancy dresses I made: Alice in Wonderland, a Japanese Geisha complete with huge bun hair, the Statue of Liberty.

I made all my own ball gowns for the summer parties when I was at university in Exeter. I not only saved a fortune but everything fitted perfectly. Best of all, I shared a house with mates who knitted. We spent half our grant on lager and lime and the other on wool. I loved to tweak the patterns knowing there would only ever be one of each of my hand-knitted jumpers in the whole world.

In the 1980s I went out with a lad who was a builder. He showed me how to use power tools and that opened up a whole new world of crafting. Thanks to him, not only could I put up my own shelves and curtain rails, wallpaper houses, even stud walls, but I discovered the joy of woodwork and started to make clocks.

THERE was something wonderful about working with wood and that smell of sawdust took things into a different league. I’d cut shapes out of MDF with my faithful jigsaw, sand them, prime them, drill a hole in the middle, paint and varnish them and then attach the clock movements and hands.

I’d make the numbers from modelling clay or novelty buttons. I even set up a small business, “Clock of the North”, and sold a few to local gift shops when I lived in Haworth.

I had a whole workshop in the basement of my house. In fact when I left one of my day jobs, my fellow workers had a whip-round and bought me a Black and Decker Workmate bench as a parting gift. When I