Christmas Crafts. October - Make a Book. Saturday Short Storytime.

It's going to be a lengthy post today as yesterday I couldn't load photos for some reason, so this is Friday's and Saturday's blog post in one fell swoop.  I woke this morning to the grumbling of the central heating firing up for the first time this autumn.  That's not a pleasing sound. I mean, I like to be toasty warm as much as the next person, but - oh! - the heating bills.  I'm not looking forward to those this winter.  

Anyway, on to cheerier matters.  I've got a couple of 'makes' for you today, the second being especially speedy to do.  First off, here's a Christmas decoration to make well ahead of the festive season.  It was fun to sew, but next time I'll probably use felt instead of velvet.  Much easier to handle, and less prone to shedding bobbles of fibre that scatter over the carpet and have to be hoovered up.  

What you'll need in terms of materials:  

Two small pieces of black velvet (or a similar fabric if you haven't any in your stash).  

Scissors, dressmaking pins.  Reels of black and red thread.  Scraps of red, black, white and dark green felt.  Sparkly silver and gold thread.  Red sequins.  A glue stick's handy if you've got one.  Oh, and a little jingle bell.  The kind you get on a cat's collar.  

How to make your Christmas Cat tree decoration: 

Cut the shape of a cat's head from a piece of velvet.  (You can draw the shape first, if you prefer, and use the paper as a template.)  Remember to factor in the seam allowance.  My finished kitty measured approx 3 and a half inches x 2 and a half, to give you an idea of the dimensions needed.  

Right sides together, pin the cat's head to the second piece of velvet and sew almost all the way around, leaving a gap of an inch or so under the cat's chin.  

Turn your cat's head right side out, pad lightly with the off-cuts of velvet or any tiny leftovers of wadding you've got.  You're not going to absolutely stuff the decoration, just give it a little puffiness.  Sew the gap closed.  Cover it with a collar, made of a long, skinny piece of red felt.  Glue it over the base of the decoration, and I stitched as well, to make it extra secure.  

Cut out green and black shapes for the eyes, and a teeny white or pale grey nose.  These can be glued on and/or sewn.  By the way, using felt means you get lots of tiny fluffs adhering to the velvet, but remove these later by using a strip of sellotape to pull them off the surface.  

Use silver metallic thread (or plain light grey or white thread if you haven't any) to sew the whiskers and mouth, as shown above.  Then, add two holly leaves cut from green felt, and three red sequins to represent the berries.  (Small red beads would look better, but I didn't have any to hand.)  Sew on a jingle bell.  You could even add several for extra musicality.  

And that's it, your Christmas Cat decoration is made.  What do you think?  

Okay, let's move on with this ridiculously long blog post ... 

The second 'make' I want to show you is very quick and easy.  You can make it in no time.  It's a book with pockets, and here we go.  

Take a sheet of A3 paper that's patterned on both sides.  (Though you can use this method with smaller or larger pieces of paper if you want.)  I'd splashed paint on both sides of this sketchpad paper.  I preferred the paler green side to this more vivid blue, so that's going to be the outside of my book.  

The A3 is laid flat on your work surface.  The side facing you will be the inside of your book.  As per the diagram below, fold the sheet in half vertically (step 1).  Then fold those two sections in half, so the A3 sheet is divided into four same-sized sections (step 2).  Flatten the paper out.  Take the lower edge of the paper and fold it upwards about three quarters of the way (step 3).  

This will form the pockets.  Take the top edge of the paper and make a fold line in that (step 4).  This will form the flaps that closes over the pockets. The flaps needs to overlap the top edge of the pockets.  

(Does that make sense?  Instructions are so hard to write!)  Here, in the photo below, I've completed step 3.  

Having added a fold for step 4, you need a pair of scissors.  Cut down to the fold lines, as shown.  You're making three cuts in all.  

The next step requires double sided tape, though you could use a glue stick if no tape's handy.  Open your sheet of A3 out flat and apply double sided tape as shown in the photo below.  This is going to close the sides of the book's four pockets.  Remove the sticky backing and fold the lower part of the A3 over the tape to form the pockets. 

So, you should have something that looks like this. 

Fold the pocket flaps down, then the two outer pages fold inwards, as in the photo below.  

Add a ribbon as a fastening.  You could glue it on, but I used a bit of sparkly tape for speed.

I used a particularly long ribbon as I wanted to wind it around the book at least three times, liking the effect that gives.  And that's it, your pocket book's made.  

Now, to the final part of today's blog post.  It's Saturday, so it's story time.  Today's offering is a strange tale of ghastly goings-on, but with the emphasis on comedy rather than ghoulishness.  I hope you like it, and if you do, maybe stroll by Amazon and check out my book.  Here's the link.  

THE WEIRDNESS OF WYKKE’S WOOD 

Wykke’s Wood was flattened in just three days.  Ancient oaks that’d been saplings in the days of the Tudors and Stuarts, venerable elms, rowan trees and ash were felled and hauled away.   JCBs ripped out berry laden hedgerows and brambles, nettles and ivy, reducing the site to a barren patch of earth, stripped of all life like a corpse laid bare.   

A billboard was erected.  ‘GreenerHaven Homes.  The best of 21st century living.’  It promised a development of thirty executive style townhouses, perfect for modern commuters with busy lifestyles.  ‘Double garages, en suites and zero maintenance gardens with artificial turf as standard.’  Teams of labourers in high vis jackets moved on site, laying sewage and water pipes, digging foundations, pouring concrete.  Everywhere was noise and movement.  GreenerHaven executives in hard hats milled around, already imagining regimented rows of houses, neat and self-contained, complete with shiny new kitchens and gleaming wet-rooms.   

Toby Munro was thrilled to be put in charge of the first house to be finished on the Wykke’s Wood site.  The show home, a pristine stage set, with a dinner table permanently laid ready for eight guests, matching napkins folded into elegantly shaped swans.  A house where fluffy white towels were never removed from towel rails or tablets of peach scented soap used to wash anyone’s hands.  Toby was eager to get selling, but straight away there were problems.  Every morning Toby had to liberally apply Ant-Be-Gone to the show home’s sink and wash basins. 

“I don’t know where the little sods keep coming from,” Toby told the site foreman.  “Hundreds of them popping up through the plugholes.  It’s like something out of a low budget horror film.” 

The foreman hadn’t been surprised.  He’d rolled his eyes and swatted at a gnat buzzing about his shirt collar.   

“This whole site’s a nightmare, if you ask me,” Don Dunleavy said.  “Half the lads are covered in flea bites, and don’t get me started on the houseflies.  We’ve had swarms in the catering van.  Puts you right off your bacon buttie.” 

Toby made a mental note to buy Prepare-To-Die-Fly spray before the show home’s first viewings.  He couldn’t risk prospective owners, clutching glossy brochures and swayed by low interest rates, being put off by creatures that flew or crawled.  Nature was all well and good, Toby thought, but it had no place on a GreenerHaven executive development.   

The day of the first viewings rolled around, the sky bright and clear.  Toby hoovered the show home’s plush carpets and cleaned surfaces with anti-bac disposable wipes.  He sprayed Fresh-As-Alpine-Air, using up an entire can to ensure the house smelt like a Swiss meadow.  Ten couples were booked in for the same timeslot, a system designed to stimulate the competitive spirit in would-be buyers, all anxious to snap up a bargain.  At 10.00am they arrived.  Toby went into meet and greet mode, shaking hands, answering questions, drawing attention to the many sleek built-in appliances.   

However, he was dismayed when several visitors started scratching.  One was stung by a wasp.  Another screamed loud enough to pierce an ear drum when she saw a worm in the downstairs cloakroom.  When earwigs were discovered in the utility room Toby wondered if somebody was playing a silly game.  One of the workers perhaps?  A brickie or a glazier with a grudge, leaving a trail of creepy crawlies as payback to GreenerHaven for some perceived grievance?  After the visitors departed, Toby tackled Don Dunleavy.   

“I can vouch for my lads,” the foreman assured him.  “They’re all good as gold.”  Dunleavy rubbed his neck where a livid red rash was forming.  “Though I’ve had to get in a dozen casuals, what with my lads going down like ninepins.  If it’s not infected flea bites, it’s bad reactions to wasp stings, or dodgy stomachs like they’ve been drinking dirty water.” 

“Just keep the casuals away from here,” Toby said.  “Understood?” 
“Yeah, understood.” 

At midday the viewings resumed, another ten couples ushered inside by Toby.  Once again he waxed lyrical about triple glazing and central heating.  Once again, to Toby’s intense annoyance, and despite having sprayed both Fresh-As-Alpine-Air and lavender fragranced All-Purpose-Bug-Off, as well as tipping a bottle of bleach down various plugholes, the prospective buyers complained of unwanted attention from things that crept or flew.   

“Ow!  Something bit me!” 

“Eeeuch!  What’s that?”   

Rolled up glossy brochures were used to splat beetles and woodlice that scuttled along window sills and shelves.  Toby apologized profusely, offering complimentary coffee and cake, silently cursing whoever was playing this ridiculous game.  Someone must be pranking GreenerHaven.  A competitor in the property market, he wondered?  Or an environmental protestor?  Those dreadlocked crusties in saggy rainbow striped jerseys and grubby jeans?  Either way, Toby was determined nothing would stop him making his quota of sales.   

The final set of viewings were scheduled for 2.00pm.  Toby gave the house another going-over.  Hoovering, dusting, bleaching, topping up bowls of woodland glade pot pourri.  By ten to two the house was, Toby thought proudly, sterile as an operating theatre.  Not a living thing in it, except himself.  Even the pot plants were artificial.  A job well done, Toby decided, resisting the urge to scratch his neck where a rash, similar to the one Don Dunleavy sported, was spreading.  Another blast of Fresh-As-Alpine-Air and the stage was set.   

At 2 o’clock the last of the prospective buyers crammed into the show home.  Toby threw himself into it, with smiles and compliments, relentlessly positive and upbeat.   

“Security features are top notch,” he told them, closing the front door and running through the triple locking system to the crowd gathered in the hallway.  “Turn this key.  Push this.  It’s like Fort Knox.  Nothing’s getting in or out.”  Toby had begun his eight-point explanation of the state-of-the-art alarm system when someone groaned.   

“Ow!  Ow!”  The man was clutching his ear.  “Something’s crawled inside.  I swear, I can feel it moving.” 
“Urgh, that’s making me feel sick,” a woman said, putting a hand over her mouth.   

Another cry, and a finger pointed accusingly upward 

“Look!” 

From the base of the light fitting above their heads, a score of tiny black dots were squeezing through.  As Toby watched in distaste, they flexed their wings and dropped downward, landing on the tops of heads. 

“Eeeww!   

“Oh my God!  That’s disgusting.”  Now, someone else was pointing at the floor.  “There’re slugs in the house.  Urgh, look at them.”   

Toby’s mouth fell open, the sight making him want to gag.  At least six thick, fat slugs lay on the smooth laminate flooring.  They’d left slimy, oozing trails along the skirting boards and on the base of the radiator.   

“Oh damn!  I mean, I’m so sorry.  It’s sabotage.  Industrial sabotage, that’s what it is.  Listen folks, let’s go into the sitting room and admire the Swedish style storage solutions.  In we go.  Come along, folks.  Move along, please.”  Some slugs were trodden on in the melee, and Toby’s stomach lurched, seeing the gooey remains squashed into the wooden effect floor.  He followed them into the sitting room, bringing up the rear, ushering everyone forward.  Then -  

“Bernard, what’s that on your back?  My God, that spider’s enormous.” 
“Hell’s teeth, Deirdre.  Get it off me.  Now!” 

The others shrank back, encircling a middle-aged couple in matching navy jerseys, the woman wearing a jaunty pair of earrings shaped like anchors.  Several people took out their phones and videoed the huge spider. 

“No unauthorized filming,” Toby yelled, but to no effect. 
Another shriek startled them all.   

“Roaches!”   

Suddenly, cockroaches were streaming down the curtains.  Toby couldn’t believe it.  Flaming heck, where were they coming from?  This was surreal.  The teal and canary yellow curtains with matching tiebacks were lousy with cockroaches, long ribbons of them marching from hooks to hemline, streaming onto the carpet.  Everyone hopped from one foot to another, women in open toed sandals especially anxious to stop the cockroaches touching their skin. 

“Squash the spider, Deirdre.” 
“I can’t, Bernard.  I just can’t.” 
“Everyone keep calm,” Toby shouted.  “It’s all okay.” 
“It’s bloody not,” an enraged Deirdre roared at him.  “That’s it.  Everyone outside.  Abandon ship.”   

En masse the crowd surged toward the hallway.  All at once a haze of flies, bulbous and flying at eye level, shot toward them, as if launched like missiles.   

“Eeek!  They’re in my hair.”   

“Keep ‘em away.  Oh, keep them off me.” 

It’s a law suit waiting to happen, Toby thought, frantically grabbing the front door handle, desperate to wrench the door open and tumble out into fresh, insect free air.  Damn, he’d locked it.  Toby’s fingers fumbled with the key.  It wasn’t turning.  Why wasn’t it unlocking?   

Oh!  He gasped. 

Through the keyhole, heavy enough to dislodge the key itself, squeezed a lumpy, oatmeal coloured maggot, followed by another and another.  A handful dropped through the letterbox.  More crawled out of an octagonal vase on a faux-wooden console table.  There were louder shrieks and hollers.   

“We’ll get out the back,” someone cried, and like a stampede of furious wildebeest the crowd surged into the de-luxe kitchen and toward the Danish-designed bi-fold doors.   

“Get them open.” 
“I can’t.  They won’t budge.” 
“Help!” 

Toby couldn’t think straight.  He’d something lodged up one nostril, and things crawling in his hair.   

“Help us!” 

Everyone was wailing and pushing, elbows jabbing into ribs, tempers flaring.  Men were squaring up to each other.  Women were using handbags to wallop beetles and yet more slugs.   

Then, in a flash, sunlight glinting off the glass, the bi-fold doors were flung back.  A bewildered Don Dunleavy stood on the patio, staring at the frantic crowd.  He rapidly stepped aside as they flooded out, crying and swatting at their hair, shaking out their clothes, brushing each other down.   

“Get them off me!” 
“Hurry, hurry!” 

The former would-be buyers couldn’t get into their cars quickly enough, driving away so fast they could’ve been auditioning for Top Gear, threats shouted from wound down windows. 

“You haven’t heard the last of this, you ruddy cowboys.”  

Toby sank down onto the artificially turfed ground, head in his hands. 

“Blimey, what happened in there?” the foreman asked him. 

“I dunno,” Toby said with a whimper.  “I simply don’t know.” 

 

Environmental Health arrived the following day, a trio of soberly suited individuals with clipboards and unsmiling faces.  The site was shut down, pending investigation.  News crews from the tabloids and major TV channels picked up the story from tweets and Facebook rants, converging on the area, interviewing still distraught people who talked of trauma and insect filled nightmares.  Videos made on the day went viral, and the American networks got wind of it.  Soon GreenerHaven had an international incident on their hands.  Local councillors, who’d previously turned a blind eye to the wood’s destruction (having gladly accepted GreenerHaven’s sizeable donation for a fact-finding mission to the Caribbean) railed against the destruction of a precious woodland resource.  GreenerHaven cut their losses.  The plans for thirty executive style townhouses were shelved.  Wykke girl-guides organized a mass tree planting, and a wildlife pond was dug to attract newts and frogs.  The council permanently withdrew planning permission for the site, and its future was assured.   

Bit by bit Nature returned to Wykke’s Wood, slowly and tentatively.  It began with the smaller creatures, the insects.  Those that scuttled and scurried or inched or burrowed.  They drew in the birds.  Sparrows, finches and robins, beaks dipping into the earth, pulling out lengths of worm, cracking open the shells of snails.  In time, nettles and brambles grew, dense and prickly.  Wild roses bloomed, and tree saplings pushed up through the undergrowth, reaching skyward.  Wykke’s Wood renewed itself, decade by decade, long after the likes of Toby Munro and Don Dunleavy breathed their last, their bones committed to the ground, rotting away, composting back into the earth from which they came.