Welcome to the mitten graveyard – where bad mittens meet their end.
A place of misplaced thumbs . . .
. . . cuffs of varying dimensions . . .
. . . endless ends
. . . and the same pattern repeated usque ad nauseam
Sometimes things get very nasty, and scissors are involved.
There are currently five mittens in the graveyard – but this morning one finally made it through to the happy land where all good mittens run wild and free. Or summat.
I think I have reached the end of this particular figurative road. Time to move away from the mittens. . .