I jog for half an hour or so, then have a shower. I love getting dressed. It only takes five minutes — while I’m jogging I’ll have decided what I’m wearing. Sometimes I dress as if I’m going to the office, although I never work in one. Other days I like to be a mechanic in a boiler suit, especially if I’m doing something technical like writing patterns. I might be a crafting farmer in my work dress from the Ukraine, or if I feel a bit pathetic I might dress up in high heels, as if I’m really in control.

Breakfast is always porridge — the energy seeps out slowly, so it’s calming. I’m a bit hyperactive, but I can’t be scared of anything if I’ve got the weight of porridge in my stomach. The Scots, apparently, eat it standing up, so I do too.

I cycle to my studio, where my day begins at about 10. Two girls work with me, and we knit everything from cakes to pints of Guinness. It’s a perfect sculptural medium — you’ve got every colour and every texture, so you can make anything you can think of. We look for old books in junk shops to find new stitches, and they give you a huge range of effects. Popcorn stitch is all bobbly, and there’s a loopy stitch we’ve used to make a sheep hot-water bottle.

Most of the morning I answer e-mails and make phone calls while the girls knit. I’ll say, “I need a pineapple,” and they make it. I try to sort out the admin before I start knitting — it’s so far from office stuff that I get completely lost in it. Then I remember the “to do” list and think: “Oh no — I’d better do that now.”

While we’re working we put on really loud music to drown out the outside world. We don’t chat, we just knit like machines. It’s easy to procrastinate when you’re crafting, and it’s so slow anyway that if we want to get anything done we have to have our heads down. I’ll think about what I’m making and who it’s for, or who might follow the pattern I make up, but I try not to think at all.

I’ve been doing craft since I was tiny. My mum does tapestry and patchwork, and my dad makes all kinds of things out of wood. Every Christmas and birthday they gave me a kit of some sort. I had my first sewing machine when I was six, and I’d make clothes out of old curtains and things, copying outfits I’d seen on Top of the Pops. My poor mum would tell me I couldn’t go out in them because I looked ridiculous. It’s the same now — she still asks: “Are you really going to wear that?”

We stop for lunch and have cheese sandwiches or something basic like that. We see how the work is going and discuss problems, come up with ideas, and sketch and jot things down. I love the materials — a ball of wool is beautiful. I got some green knobbly yarn recently, and it was obvious it should be a gherkin.

By running Cast Off I see all different reasons why people make things. A lot have jobs where they never see the final result. With knitting, you work on a thing, finish it and use it, or give it away. I try to make patterns for quick things, like a cherry bakewell tart. It’s a portable hobby you can always find time for.

We organised a knitted wedding last year — everything from the cucumber sandwiches to the wedding dress was knitted — and knitting groups were invited to make things for it and to come along. Nothing happened for a few weeks, then the post started to arrive. Things came from all over the world — knitted bride and groom dolls from Orkney, and white knitted squares for the wedding dress from Italy. We got bunches of flowers from Cornwall, and a 93-year-old woman sent in a knitted pair of blue crotchless knickers. The day before the wedding we were panicking, thinking: “We haven’t got a cake! How are we going to knock one up tonight?” And then a wedding cake arrived through the post — three tiers, from the Brighton and Hove knitters. Amazing!

We try to stop working at about 7, but because knitting is so slow we’ll work way into the night if we’re on a deadline. In the evening I like to cook for friends, or go out — parties, private views, the pub. If I’m at home, I like to draw, or make things I can’t make during the day. I’d like to make as much as I can in my time on the planet. There are things at my mum’s house my great-grandparents made, and I’d be quite proud if one of my knitted leeks is around when I’m gone.

I try to get to bed before midnight. I have nightwear for different moods — stripy brushed-cotton cosy pyjamas, a pink silk nightie my great-granny made, or my mum’s old nightie, full of rips and falling apart. I fall asleep as soon as I lie down. I dream a lot — about people and drawing and landscapes. I have a dream dictionary next to my bed, and I’m trying to teach myself to be a lucid dreamer. But I never dream about knitting."