Churchill had a black dog on his shoulder. Better than a chip. I don’t have a dog, I don’t do chips. Give me a hole instead. If only to fall into it.
This afternoon I did some stitching for the Angel, as promised. I am as good as my promise. Three days later.
So in my heaven to hell organized sewing and assorted box I find a bag full of buttons.
Buttons are depressing. Not only because they have holes in them.
You can never find the one you not so much look for as need. And they tend to get lost. My coat currently missing two. Camouflaged by how I drape a rather dapper (and very long) scarf.
Reminds me of Christmas Trees. The Angel and I go to choose a tree. Norway’s finest. In line with the motherland’s tradition this mission usually taking place the day before Christmas Eve (that’s 23 Dec). Which narrows the choice because the English start Christmas early December. So, for sake of argument, say there are ten trees left. I hate choice. The Angel, being male, always has been cutting through the crap, from when he was tiny. After allowing me to look at this shape and the other for ten minutes he’s always taken action: “That’s the one, Mama”. And it is. The one he pointed out to me in the first place.
Now get hold of your handkerchieves and cry with my son: On our way home I’d make up stories about all those poor trees left behind. Not meeting their destiny: Candles, decorations, presents underneath, gushes of appreciation of the tree’s beauty. “STOP IT, MAMA”. And I did.
Buttons. They are lost souls. Spares. Surplus to requirements.