The one thing I had as a child that I really loved (I had a fair few things, I was a brat) was a book my grandmother made. She made me a lot of things actually, mainly stuffed patchwork dogs, and I'm not quite sure how she did it. She had eighteen or more grandchildren, spread all over the world, and she found the time and energy to make something for all of us. The book she made me taught me how to count, learn the alphabet, tie a shoelace and tell the time. Quite an achievement for one handmade book.
So I wanted to make one for Stef's little boy. I hand sewed each page on the train, stabbing my fingers a few times when the train jerked and suffering the stares of people wondering what the hell I was doing. The results, I have to admit, are not as comprehensive as my Grandma's, and I wasn't baking a cake at the same time like she was no doubt doing, but hopefully they achieve the same results: complete literacy at the turn of a felt page. OK, that didn't happen, but boy, can that child count!
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