It has come to my attention that I like wool. No, not wool as in yarn, as any self-respecting knitter has to, but wool as in sheep fluff string. I love the feel of it. I love the smell of it. Is that weird? I want to be wrapped in woollens, preferably of my own fabrication. I am not a fan of acrylic after all.
There’s a lot about bucket and what-have-you lists on the internet and I found an interesting entry the other day: pet a sheep. I love sheep. They are the most gorgeous things possible; cute faces, robust and enduring, and well, woolly. Never mind bungee jumping, skydiving or any of those exciting, dangerous pastimes that make most people’s’ lists, on my Life Experiences list the first entry going down is I want to pet a sheep. Preferably a lamb. Although I see them frequently at a distance, gamboling across the spring fields, usually from a car, haven’t pet a wee lamb since I was very, very little. So I want to pet a sheep.
I had another nosebleed last week, which I really didn’t appreciate. I also really didn’t appreciate the fact that I was working with white yarn at the time. No, there was no damage, never fear, I am a well-trained and well-experienced blood-stopper but of all the colours that I don’t usually work with!
Whilst I do not hold Mr Freud and his theories in too high esteem, he has had quite an influence on both our culture and our language. Apparently, I have been making a Freudian slip (nothing to do with petticoats). Apparently when I say ‘feral’ (when describing my organisation systems, for example), it comes out ‘fair isle’. Hmm.