Swearing and Sparkles

You know that sinking feeling you get, say, when you take your car to a mechanic for what you hope is something minor and they come back to you with that look, and they say, "Yep, we're gonna hafta rebuild your engine..." (or something like that).

I had that feeling last night.

With the practiced eye of a master knitter (in skill if not official credentials), Cmeknit looked at my latest fledgling Odessa and said, "Yep, you're gonna hafta rip it back."


Damn!

I am no good at ripping lace. I can't pick up the yarnovers, no matter how carefully I try to keep track of them. That's when all the trouble starts.

*Bleep* *Bleep* *Bleep* *Bleep* *Bleep*

(If you could see my mouth moving, it would be digitally blurred, like they do to Chef Gordon Ramsay on U.S. television. That's why I prefer watching him on shows produced in Britain, where they don't bleep or blur his irascible personality.)


So, this conversation happened last night at the home of a mutual friend (okay it was Heather), who was having a wonderful yard sale of yarn, getting rid of her bee-yoo-tee-ful stash for the benefit of us Noro-and-Koigu-deprived plebes.

I have two words for you. Two mellifluous and harmonious words.

Noro Aurora.

Go on, say them out loud! You'll know what I mean when they come tripping off your tongue like little lambs gambolling in the spring.

Noro. Aurora. Noro Aurora.


Look, it's Noro Aurora. The sparkly Noro. Girly girls love sparkles. (You can't really see it sparkle in this photo, though.)

I also got four skeins of Noro Silk Garden, including the coveted colour 87. And a couple of balls of Silk Garden Lite. Oh, and some Petite Poucet Colorado, which looks like this.