My summer, lulled by memories of waves, sunsets among the rocks and volcanic rocks, was abruptly interrupted one day when the courier thundered at the doorbell.

A tipper truck was unloading packages of papers knotted with cotton threads on my doorstep. The mountain of paper was so high that all I could see was the courier’s discoloured wisp as he climbed back onto the vehicle and disappeared over the horizon with an expletive.

I called my children to the rescue to carry the goods into the house and for days we were forced to sleep on the carpet because the cellulose mass prevented access upstairs.

I recognised the van and my head had swung left and right for 15 minutes, aware of my fate.

Patrician had set to work….

She had actually already warned me a few months earlier, making a joke about Christmas embroidery and how I had recently gone soft, but she had done so with a certain wry, yet tired and detached smirk, as if she herself found the idea a bit boring.

Hello! What’s the matter with you?!

         Yes, yes… See what you like and then I’ll send you the score.

I thought I made it clear that I don’t embroider for Christmas, so forget it.

          Stop it. We don’t have time. I already sent you the fabric.