Somebody has to make the puppets.
Fur, felt, and two enormous plastic eyes. Made by hand, one at a time, at a kitchen table. No factory, no pattern, no two the same.
Four things and a lot of patience.
Long-pile fur
The expensive kind, because the cheap kind looks like a bath mat. It sheds on everything within a three-metre radius and turns up in your tea for weeks afterwards.
One red rectangle
Craft felt. It is the entire mouth, and it does every bit of the acting. Get the angle wrong by five degrees and a friendly monster becomes a furious one.
Two enormous eyes
Plastic domes, bought in a bag of fifty, always one size larger than seems sensible. This is not a stylistic choice. It is the difference between a puppet and a sock.
Your hand
Nothing happens without it. Left on a shelf this is a metre of fake fur with a face. Put your arm in and it becomes somebody with opinions. That's the whole trick, and it isn't sold separately.
There's only one so far.
The next one could be yours.
Nothing here is a real product page. It's a sketch pad — whatever you land on gets attached to your message so there's something concrete to argue about.
Commissions, questions,
or just to say the eyes are unsettling.
How long does one take?
Longer than you'd think. The fur is the slow part — it has to be brushed out of every seam or the whole thing looks like it lost a fight.
Can I pick the colour?
That's what the sketch pad above is for. Whether the exact fur exists in that exact colour is a separate and more difficult conversation.
Is this a shop?
No. It's one person, one pair of hands, and — at the time of writing — precisely one finished puppet. Ask nicely and see what happens.