I’ve told this story before, but I will again.
When I lived in London, there was an old widow who lived near me. She had almost nothing to her name thanks to the laws at the time, except a small room in a house full of lodgers. She frequently made the difference in her meager living by doing spinning. Trouble was, she was almost completely blind and had very frail hands. She would nod off in her chair–the one piece of furniture she had–and leave the wool in the basket. I could see her from the rooftop that I liked to sit on, just off of Fish Street. And I knew her at sight, because she was always meeting her daughter in front of a particular shop I used to frequent. One night, I saw her nod off and the spindle hit the floor, and I thought, “I’m bored, and isn’t this a fun game to play?”
So I went and did it. I like spinning. It’s calming. It troubled me not one bit to do, and when the habit persisted, she began to wonder about it. She started leaving me presents and relying on me a bit, going to sleep on her mat, rather than sitting up in the chair. The spinning would always be done.
What wrong with giving an old woman magic, if it is within your power to do?
I found her body when she died, by that very means, and made sure someone else knew of it. It makes me very happy that when she laid down that night, perhaps not feeling her best, or perhaps knowing it was time, she said to herself, “My little imp will come tonight and see to me.”
And I did.
The real life Rumplstiltskin.