The bluestocking stitcher grew up in London’s drab western suburbs and was raised on a diet of broken biscuits (and also Angel Delight, Supermousse and Findus crispy pancakes)
She escaped into academia and found herself studying Middle English literature. While reading an old manuscript fragment from the Canterbury Tales, she found a couple of faintly written lines which someone had tried to erase.
“By Chryst, these Southwark stretes bore me to de’ath,
They are so fuckying drab”, the nun’s priest sayeth.
As she read the lines aloud to herself, a flickering cowled figure appeared beside her. She looked around the library to see if anyone else had noticed. All the students around her were concentrating on their work.
“Who are you? How did you get here?”
The nun’s priest, for it was him, explained that he had been trapped in the words on the page until released by the words being spoken aloud.
He asked to be allowed to stay in the new, modern, colourful world. It would, after all, be far less drab than the world he came from.
The bluestocking stitcher thought.
“Well, OK, then. But you’ll have to do something to blend in. They don’t take well to hoodies around here.”
At that, the nun’s priest flickered briefly and transformed into a small cloud of butterflies, each swearing quietly to itself. Now the Bluestocking Stitcher wanders the streets surrounded by butterflies. Every now and then a butterfly settles to add a touch of colour to a particularly drab street corner.