Paddington's convalescence had been a difficult time for the Browns. While he had remained in bed it had been bad enough, because he kept getting grape-pips all over the sheets. But if anything, matters had got worse once he was up and about. He wasn't very good at "doing nothing" and it had become a full time occupation keeping him amused and out of trouble. He had even had several goes at knitting something–no one ever quite knew what–but he'd got in such a tangle with the wool, and it had become so sticky with marmalade, that in the end they had to throw it away.
07 September, 2013
Was reading a old English children's book full of dry humour, Michael Bond's More about Paddington: