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  • Stories often work in threes, like wishes. St Nicholas gave three presents. Baba Yaga had three servants. Three crowns buried on the suffolk coast.

    On our wedding we received three gifts. First, a whistling cherry red kettle. Second, money pinned in a card. Third, a quilt - my gift to us. A trousseau if you will.

    It wasn't an intricate, geometric work of art. The kind you see selling for hundreds of pounds in artfully dishevelled country house interiors. Rather it was in the best tradition of the craft. A hotch-potch of collected scraps. Collages of forgotten memories. Black silk from a cheongsam brought in Beijing old town, old curtain fabric, even an ill advised boob tube - far more beautiful lined against a Liberty sunflower.

    We've had two winters since then. Each time, it's my husband who is the first to dig it out of the drawer and smooth it carefully on the bed. We three make a triptych - husband, wife, quilt. If someone carved an effigy of us, made us in supine stone fidelity - it would be us three carved.
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