A beginning in black
The only small witch in the village
As a small child, my walls featured the comfort of Oscar the Grouch with my body adorned by a home-made Claude the Crow knitted jumper (say no more my Australian audience). Every party (as soon as I was old enough to choose my own woeful way) was adorned in black — it was 'come as you are', as long as it was a bit spooky.
Growing up, while Mum was lighting candelabras and crafting mini witches, I had turned into one. I was the only small witch in the village at Halloween, with Dad dutifully walking two houses ahead to give our unsuspecting neighbours lollies to hand right back to me.
Woe is a way of life, of being, and this little beastie of a brand has come to life while I wear another home-made number… a black and slightly unhinged mourning jumper knitted by my Godmother.