Maybe it’s because my own niblings are too old for gluing cotton wool to a stick and calling it a sheep, but I can’t help but notice a distinct lack of well-meaning, unintentionally abstract tat decomposing on the fridge doors of my friends and family.
In my day (she says with one hand firmly on hip while wagging the other’s pointer), making crap and believing it constituted a gift that someone would actually want was a weekly occurrence. Going to a party, a relly’s house, or even one time our greengrocer (remember them, kids?!), almost always meant pulling out the ole How Do You Do? craft book and cursing the distinct lack of pipe cleaners in this country.