Last week Cornelia's favourite pair of jeans sprung a hole at the knee that was too big to pass inspection at the door. I handed down the death sentence. She appealed it. She got out the sewing kit, cut a denim oval from another pair of jeans awaiting a donation run (my own pair, it turned out), stitched her name onto it for emphasis, and patched her jeans with it. The donor tissue was a match, and the graft held. It's as if she were descended from an Oma who lived through the post-war or something.
Or Grandpa's girl.
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