The boiler is broken. It has been broken since we got home on Thursday. It is winter. My house is cold and damp, and I am past being cheerful, and have reached whingey. I can’t be bothered to write insightful thoughts about Christmas and New Year. So in the spirit of fiddling whilst Rome burns (ooh, burn… fire… warm… see where my frosted brain goes on this one?), I got out the bag of tweed I acquired on Skye in August.
I am slightly obsessed by tweed (although not for pyjamas, let us be clear about that). It is so entirely reminiscent of the land it comes from (there really ought to be a single word that conveys that meaning, but if there is, hypothermia has removed it from my brain…)
I had lots of different little pieces, and it all came together nicely to cover another chair cushion (I am gradually working my way round our kitchen chairs in my quest to COVER THE WORLD IN PATCHWORK!)
Sadly, there hasn’t been any daylight in Derbyshire since March, so the pictures are a little underwhelming, but here it is making me happy in my kitchen. But not warm. Maybe I need those pyjamas after all…