I’ve specified that the Cotswold village should be fictional for my third go. I am wondering if I’ll get a honey-coloured stone description, a Penrose and a postal element.

A Christmas Gift in Honeywick

Nestled in the frosty folds of the Cotswold hills, the village of Honeywick looked like something from a snow globe. Stone cottages lined the cobbled lanes, their honey-colored walls dusted with snow. Fairy lights twinkled in every window, and the scent of mulled cider and pine boughs wafted through the air.

Among the villagers was twelve-year-old Elsie Harrow, who lived with her grandmother, Maud, above the Honeywick Stationery & Books shop. Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.

Elsie adored the shop. She especially loved the smell — a comforting blend of paper, ink, and old leather. But the shop’s most beloved resident wasn’t Maud or even Elsie — it was Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.

That Christmas Eve, Honeywick was bustling. Children queued for gingerbread at the bakery, and the bell above the stationery shop chimed constantly as villagers popped in for last-minute cards and ribbons. Elsie manned the wrapping station, humming carols while Pickle lounged beside her, twitching his tail each time the ribbon curled.

Around midday, a boy Elsie didn’t recognize came in. He looked about her age, bundled in a coat that had clearly seen better winters. His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.

Tom wandered the shop slowly, his eyes wide as he examined the shelves. Eventually, he stopped at the notebook table, where Pickle yawned and stretched before hopping into his lap as if he’d chosen a new favorite human.

“This one’s special,” Elsie said, pointing to a dark blue notebook with gold-embossed stars. “It’s made by a local artist — the paper’s hand-stitched and the cover’s painted with real indigo.”

Tom ran his fingers over it with reverence, but shook his head. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t have enough. I just wanted to find something for my dad. He used to write stories when Mum was around. I thought maybe…”

Before Elsie could answer, Maud appeared behind the counter, eyes twinkling. “That notebook’s half price today,” she said firmly. “Christmas special.”

Tom hesitated, then beamed, pulling out a few carefully folded notes. He thanked them shyly and left with Pickle trotting after him as far as the door before returning to his sunspot.

That night, after the shop closed and the village square echoed with the last notes of the carolers, Elsie found something beneath the tiny tree in their flat. A square parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue string.

Inside was a notebook — pale green, embossed with her initials. Tucked inside the front cover was a note in Maud’s careful handwriting: “For your stories. The world needs them.”

Elsie looked at Pickle, who blinked back approvingly. She ran her hand over the cover, heart full. Outside, snow began to fall again, soft and slow, as Honeywick settled into a Christmas night wrapped in peace and promise.

My comments:

Things I notice are that we have honey-coloured again and we have US English spelling. The village name of Honeywick is charming. I can imagine Winnie-the-Pooh visiting but I won’t include him in future generated stories for copyright reasons.

This extract: “Maud had run the shop for nearly forty years, and though she claimed her bones were “too old for counters and Christmas queues,” she still opened the doors every day, even on Christmas Eve.”

Taken with Evelyn the aged post-mistress from the first story I generated, this makes me worry about the retirement prospects of women in fictional Cotswold villages. Are these women Women Against State Pension Inequality (WASPI) women?

“Pickle, a sleek grey cat with an imperious attitude and a habit of curling up on the warmest notebook display.”

I have just felt all my notebooks and they are all equally warm. They aren’t displays though. Is Pickle a good cat name? I would call a sleek grey cat Smoky which I think makes me less imaginative than Chat GPT.

“His name was Tom, he said, recently moved to Honeywick with his dad, who’d taken a job at the local garage.”

A Hallmark made for Christmas movie began to unroll itself in my head when I read the above sentence. Chat GPT seems to like the name Tom. We had a Tom in my second story too. We have no postal element this time.

So now for the book cover. I’ve specified the title of the story, the colour of the cat and the colour of the notebook Tom buys.

The thing I notice about this cover is that Stationery is spelt correctly once and incorrectly once.

I think for my fourth go at creating a Christmas story set in a fictional Cotswold village I’ll stick with the name Honeywick, specify use of British English and maybe add a modern element because all three stories so far have felt a bit generic.

I went to the lovely Marlow Bookshop just after generating this book cover and I treated myself to a new notebook.