No peeking! Yes you! You know who you are! You said you wouldn’t look! . . .
Actually, those who I’ve placed under a three-day blog embargo are good at keeping their promises, and if I don’t blog this now I probably never will.
The seasonal craft wagon trundles ever onwards. Very soon, it will grind to a halt, and so, my dears, shall I. For I have been making gift-stuff for what seems like an aeon. Ties! mittens! hats! cowls! You know the drill: every year I promise myself that I won’t get in this situation. I will begin in June, or I will just turn out fewer things. But somehow, whatever plans I make, these days toward the end of December always end up as variations on a theme. How well I remember the horror of arising before dawn one Christmas morning to seam up a man-cardigan. What seasonal fun ensued when when we realised it was a garment only Mr Tickle would have been proud to wear. A monumental cardigan! ho ho ho! This year there will be no knitting disasters, but I may well start to dream in cushion.
In this endless parade of log-cabin thingumabobs, I seem to have devised my very own version of Psyche’s tasks. Can I stop making them now? Please? Can I? Anyway, if you are female, or under 10, and in some way related to me, one of these babies will appear in your stocking. Unless, that is, I perpetrate a grim and unseasonal act of anti-cushion violence. I can’t actually rule this out. . . .