Cross Stitch
Hunkering down from the wintry weather, I've picked up a piece of embroidery that I must have begun over twenty years ago, possibly just after the youngest was born. I have a vague recollection of working on it again upon the birth of a niece or nephew but essentially it has lain untouched in a drawer for two decades. Memory plays tricks, so when I saw it there I was convinced that it was almost complete, only to unfold it and discover quite the contrary.
On the basis that I'm always up for a challenge in retirement and there's nothing to entice me to venture out this weekend, I decided to concentrate on endeavouring, at long last, to finish it.
Clearly you don't call it cross-stitch for nothing. In fact I'd go so far as to say you don't call it cross stitch because of its shape and intersecting lines. Rather the name must surely derive from the vexing nature of pushing needle through cotton and back at the exact points required by the pattern and all the while whilst seeking to avoid stabbing yourself.
Several hours later, I am sure that my technique is improving but I am certain that a trained eye will clearly spot the difference in quality produced by the younger self when compared with the bespectacled specimen that I now must become in order to see what I am trying to do. As for threading the needle without one of those simple but clever little gadgets, I've given up!
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