A strange thing happened at the boutique on Tuesday. I came in at half past nine to find the front window display, a lovely arrangement of eleven small jumpers in graduated sizes, replaced by a single pile of loose yarn. It was neatly coiled. It was, in fact, rather beautifully coiled. It was the exact colour of every jumper I had put there.
I have asked around. The delivery boy saw nothing. The neighbour cat, Mr. Ottoway, says he heard a faint sound at night, like someone breathing out. I am sure there is a sensible explanation: mice, or the draught, or a particularly determined moth. I have wound the yarn into a ball and put it on the shelf, where it looks happy. I have put the kettle on, and I am not at all upset.
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