The sniping continues until I cast off.
“Knit me a jumper for Christmas,” he demands.
“I only knit for babies and toddlers. No patience for adult garments.” A punch lands. “Knit one, pearl one,” I mutter. A red bead dots soft pink wool.
Instead of my usual Christmas gift card there’s a colourfully wrapped coffin shaped box, six feet long by one foot wide.
“No excuse now,” Jed smirks.
Might end up in a coffin when I tell him the knitting machine’s been returned.