I already owned the next project.

There were three embroidery hoops in the drawer. I had embroidered nothing. There was also a packet of little wooden beads, bought during a period when I thought the flat needed more things suspended from other things.

I had opened the drawer to find tape. Instead I spent twenty minutes handling materials with the fondness usually reserved for photographs of old friends. I remembered buying almost all of them. I remembered using rather fewer.

The obvious response was to look for a project. My phone promptly offered several, each requiring one inexpensive item I did not own. Six inexpensive items later, I was building another shopping basket.

I put the phone on the other side of the room.

On the table I laid out what was actually there: cotton scraps, thread, scissors, two needles, a pencil and a little sewing kit my mother had given me. I put the beads back. They were not in trouble; they simply did not need to participate.

One scrap was the sleeve of a shirt I had loved. It was too small for the elaborate cushion I immediately imagined. It was large enough for a bookmark. I read books. I sometimes put receipts in them. A bookmark had a reasonable chance of employment.

I folded the fabric, tried a few stitches and discovered that I did not remember how to finish the thread. This was the point where I usually ordered a more complete kit. Instead I called my mother and asked one small question.

She explained, then asked why I was sewing a bookmark when I owned paper. I told her I wanted to use the fabric. "Oh," she said. "Then carry on." It was a refreshingly short discussion of my creative practice.

The project fitted into the evening.

One edge went crooked. I unpicked part of it, redid a little and left the rest. I did not need to turn a first attempt into a demonstration of all the skills I might eventually acquire.

When I was finished, I put the needles back in their case, cleared the table and put the bookmark in the book I was reading. The whole thing had taken less space than the order I nearly placed.

I still like craft shops. I will probably buy supplies again when there is something specific I want to make. But I have stopped treating the drawer as evidence that I failed to become a more interesting person. It is a drawer. Some of its contents may be useful next Saturday.

The tape turned up behind the sewing kit. I used it for the job I had started with, which gave the afternoon a second, unexpected completion.