Nå er alle gaver ferdige og pakket, så historien nedenunder er i år mer til underholdning enn til gjenkjennelse. Selv om i år faktisk er første året jeg har kommet i mål med god (hmm...) margin (de to siste gavene kom av pinnene allerede i går!)
Det har vært veldig stille i bloggen min i flere måneder, men det handler altså om julegavehemligheter og ikke latskap. Gaver blir blogget i romjulen når alle er åpnet og forhåpentligvis godt mottatt.
Inntil da - kos dere:
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around me was unfinished knitting not under the tree. The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care ‘cause the heels and toes had not a stitch there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, but I had not finished the caps for their heads. Dad was asleep; he was no help at all, and the sweater for him was six inches too small.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I put down my needles to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tripped over my yarn and fell with a crash.
The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow reminded me how much I still had to go. Out on my lawn, I heard such a noise, I thought it would wake both Dad and the boys.
And although I was tired, my brain a bit thick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick!
What I heard then left me somewhat perplexed-ed, for not a name I heard was what I expected. “Move Ashford; move Lopi; move Addie & Clover; move Reynolds; move Starmore; and Noro - move over!”
“Paton, don’t circle round, stay in the line. Come now, you sheep, you’ll work out just fine! I know this is hard being just your first year, I’d hate to go back to eight tiny reindeer.”
I peered over the sill; what I saw was amazing, eight woolly sheep on my lawn all a’grazing.
And then, in a twinkle, I heard at my door Santa’s coming across the porch floor. I rose from my knees and got back on my feet, and as I turned round, Saint Nick I did meet.
He was dressed all in wool from his head to his toes and his cloths were hand knit from above to below.
A bright Fairisle sweater he wore on his back, and his toys were all stuffed in a aran knit sack. His cap was a wonder of bobbles and lace, a beautiful frame for his rosy red face.
The scarf round his neck could have stretched for a mile, and the socks peeking over his boots were Argyle. The backs of his mittens bore an intricate cable, and suddenly on one I spied a small label.
SC was the duplicate stitch on the cuff, and I asked “Hay Nick, did you knit all this stuff?”
He proudly replied “Ho-ho-ho, yes I did. I learned how to knit when I was a kid.”
He was chubby and plump, a quite well-dressed old man, and I laughed to myself for I’d thought of a plan.
I flashed him a grin and jumped in the air, the next thing he knew he was tied to a chair. He spoke not a word, but looked in his lap where I’d laid my needles and yarn for a cap.
He quickly began knitting, first one cap then two; for the first time I thought I might really get through. He put heels on the stockings and toes on some socks while I sat back drinking scotch on the rocks!!
So quickly, like magic his needles they flew, that he was all finished by quarter to two. He sprang for his sleigh when I let him go free, and over his shoulder he looked back at me.
And I heard him exclaim as he sailed past the moon “Next year start your knitting sometime around June!”