A mysterious parcel arrived from Denver which, when opened, it threatened to swamp the place, thus:
Poor, put-upon Victoria. All those years of being smothered by smoke in London pub, and now she lives in Chicago in mortal peril from flood tides of yarn. This is no way for a queen to live. And believe me, I should know.
We got Rowan Cork, we got Kidsilk Haze, we got Jo Sharp DK Aran in exactly the colors I needed to complete the line-up for Susan's wrap. We got enough yarn here to necessitate the buying of storage bins because chucking everything behind the sofa in bags is no longer working. I am knitting as fast as I can, yet the pile grows higher.
Very odd, encountering Lady Bountiful in the guise of a guy from Colorado. Isn't the knitting world strange?