A couple of Sundays ago, my rug-hooking friends and I went on a field trip to Coombs, BC, for the annual 100 Mile Fleece and Fibre sale. I was feeling flush with all that money I have piled up from selling my time. I thought I might just go wild, relive the past, and get a good ol' stinky raw fleece. Just for old time's sake.
White for once, instead of the coloured fleeces I usually fall for, so maybe I could dye it and have more options.
I found a gorgeous Romney (named "Bea") -- silky white fleece, fantastic crimp -- and snapped her up.
It could have ended there, and I would have saved myself a lot of heartache.
But wait, my friends had to look around at all the sumptuous top and roving for sale at the 30-odd booths. I loitered outside, I ate my lunch in the sun, I tapped my toe. Finally I went back in to look for them.
You know what happened.
A raw Icelandic fleece the colour of caramel started winking in my direction, rendering me weak-kneed and handing over $20 before I could think straight.
I took him home.
In the light of day, he wasn't so good-looking.
And he had scurf.
So why am I letting the beautiful Romney languish in the basement while spending time I don't have in lovingly washing and combing the Icelandic in the hopes that he will be spinnable? Have I learned nothing?
Once teased, he even looks like something I would find under the chesterfield during my twice-yearly vacuums.
Uh huh.
White for once, instead of the coloured fleeces I usually fall for, so maybe I could dye it and have more options.
I found a gorgeous Romney (named "Bea") -- silky white fleece, fantastic crimp -- and snapped her up.
But wait, my friends had to look around at all the sumptuous top and roving for sale at the 30-odd booths. I loitered outside, I ate my lunch in the sun, I tapped my toe. Finally I went back in to look for them.
You know what happened.
A raw Icelandic fleece the colour of caramel started winking in my direction, rendering me weak-kneed and handing over $20 before I could think straight.
In the light of day, he wasn't so good-looking.
So why am I letting the beautiful Romney languish in the basement while spending time I don't have in lovingly washing and combing the Icelandic in the hopes that he will be spinnable? Have I learned nothing?
Once teased, he even looks like something I would find under the chesterfield during my twice-yearly vacuums.
Let this be a permanent record of my repeating folly.
oh dear, a mangy wolf's hairball in sheep's clothing............
ReplyDeleteoh dear, let him languish while you contemplate your folly and enjoy Bea.
ReplyDeletelove how you served this up on a silver platter, there's a Meret Oppenheim-ish come hither/repulsion
ReplyDeleteOh dear! I think many of us have been there/done that with a fleece you should have just left behind. Sometimes though they turn into great projects so you never know. Best of luck with it! Alternatively bad fleeces make pretty good mulch or compost. Just sayin'.
ReplyDelete