You can't learn to spin without fiber, so a couple of weeks ago I sent away to an online operation specializing in such things and ordered two pounds of Romney roving. I've heard from so many people that Romney is a good beginner's wool that I decided to go with it.
Last night after work I was kntting on the Regicide Scarf (it's coming along well, thank you for asking) when a call came up from the concierge saying I had a delivery from Twelve Willows Farm. "You want me to send 'er up?" he asked.
"Absolutely," I said. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. And then I opened the door, and then I saw this.
"Hi," said the sheep.
"Hello," I said.
"I assume you've been expecting me?" said the sheep.
I wasn't quite sure how to answer that.
The sheep held out a small slip of yellow paper with "TWELVE WILLOWS FARM: BILL OF SALE" printed in block captials across the top.
"Um...I was expecting two pounds of Romney roving," I said.
"No kidding," said the sheep.
"Are you two pounds of Romney roving?"
"Eventually," said the sheep.
"You're not quite what I anticipated," I said weakly.
"Yeah, well I thought you'd be taller," said the sheep.
She extended a hoof. I shook it.
"I'm Dolores," she said.
"Swell. Terrific. Are you going to ask me to come in or what?"
I stepped aside and Dolores toddled into the living room, pulling a small purple wheelie bag. She settled herself on the sofa, stretched out and burped delicately. There was a faint aroma of hay.
"Traffic from the airport was a bitch," she yawned.
I sat down in my armchair and we looked at each other for a few minutes.
"So, chatterbox, are you going to offer me a drink or do I need to get it myself?"
"I...well...what would you like?"
"Whisky, neat, thanks."
"I have...orange juice."
"Oh," sighed Dolores, "this is going to be some gig. I tell you what, big shot. Point me to the powder room. I need to freshen up and then we're going out for a wee drinkie."
While Dolores was brushing her teeth, C called.
"How's your day going?" he asked.
"A sheep is here," I said.
"Oh?" he said.
"Yes," I said.
"What does it want?" he said.
"It wants a cocktail," I said.
"Of course it does," said C.
To be continued, apparently whether I like it or not.