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.