by Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq.
I live in a house with a needlepointer.
She makes my life a trial.
Every evening I would curl up on Her lap to sleep. But I can’t. First She wants to use Her lap stand, and She yells at me to get off.
Then Her needlepoint frame hits me in the nose, and She yells at me to get off.
Then She plays with all those pretty threads right in front of my eyes. But do I get to play with them, too? I do not! When I pounce, She yells at me to get off. (Why? She’s not pouncing on them.)
Finally we settle down and I can get some good sleeping done. But as soon as I get comfortable, She decides She has to put the recliner up. She yells at me to get off.
I am very patient and if these terrible slights to my dignity were limited to our evening times together, I could find it in myself not to allow my equanimity to be disturbed. But…
Sometimes I find a lovely BIG batch of thread. My brother and I chase it all over the house. We do this when She is asleep, so She won’t be disturbed. But in the morning She finds the trail of string and yells at me.
When She prints a pattern, Her printer makes these amazing, interesting, noises. I love to watch it. Trying to help, I pick up a piece of paper in my mouth. She yells at me to get off.
She leaves flat pieces and large rolls of needlepoint canvas everywhere. I helpfully enlarge the holes by chewing on the corners, and again She yells at me to get off.
THAT’S why I hate needlepoint!
When She drops her needles on the rug, no one can find them until He walks by barefoot. He finds them. Then He yells at Her. And that’s why He hates needlepoint.