I’ve never got the hang of hassocks – those hard square cushions so carefully embroidered with corn and grapes or sheep or coats of arms, and with names of local voluntary bodies. I suppose they are stuffed with horsehair – the hassocks, not the voluntary bodies.
My knees mean a great deal to me, and they have to be kept from seizing up by careless kneeling, but hassocks have never been part of my tradition, as people these days call it. Hassocks often seem
