She wields her magic crochet hook carved from a unicorn horn, producing tits and scrunchies enchanting enough to fill any hoard. Over her shoulder, atop a shawl with a pink and yellow skull motif, sit a pair of pasty, saggy tits, stretch marks an ever changing rainbow with daisy areoles. Beyond her crooked porch stretches a forest of gnarled oaks and haggard foxes, refugees from modern life come t
o rest a moment in her wooly, bit musty, embrace. On the Aga inside sits a cauldron, bubbling brews to mend aches and sooth bellies and intoxicate. Beside it is a pair of crocheted oven gloves. In the garden by the vegetable patch with potatoes and squash and mandrake is the penny-farthing she rides to town. Strapped to the back in a willful display of the strength of yarn,, is a wicker laundry basket on wheels. Even though it's sat unused and the day darkens to a crisp, pink dusk, the cats mew about, waiting for the next trip to town. The old hag piles her yarn in the basket at her feet, hoists her tits inside, and potters slowly through the cottage, muttering curses and groaning like the boards beneath her. She passed the mirror by the fire place. Mirrors are dangerous things, she knows. She puts the basket of tits on the floor. Staring at the lines on her forehead, the creases around her eyes and mouth. The sag of her ear lobes and droop of her decolletage, she blinks. The face in the mirror flickers gently like static through powerlines. The tits tighten and the sagging ears are replaced by bejewelled monuments to medical grade scaffolding. She's 25, in a hoodie and ancient knickers, ball of mustard yarn tangling in one pocket, half finished Jaffa Cakes in the other. In her hair is a scrunchie made of scrap yarn, stuck with crochet hooks and tapestry needles. She hasn't slept in days. Her wrists sound like cement mixers, her elbows are down to the nubbin. She'll stop after this tit, she tells herself as she selects a new Panic At The Disco album. The crone makes a pot of coffee.
