There was panic in the garden. Granny had lost a knitting needle. Nomes scuttled in every direction hunting high and low.
“We gotta find it or the ole bat’ll make our lives a misery.”
“We have but it’s a puzzle to me how it got lost. Her don’t hardly move from that bliddy tidstool.”
Brenda stopped dead. “Her don’t, do her.”
She strode back to where Granny sat, rigid and complaining.
Even Granny obeyed when Brenda used that voice.
The needle fell from the mouldering haystack of Granny’s clothing. She grabbed it and life went back to normal.
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