Don't Mess With Blue Faced Leicester.

It's been a slow few weeks here at Mog Towers, I've been doing a lot of snoozing and undertaking of activities that require minimum brain function. To that end, I read all three of the Fifty Shades books ( three for the price of two at the Cancer Research shop, and no, they don't get any better after the first one) and then took out my frustrations on a snow white innocent fleece. Unlike the books' hero, who seems to get whatever he wants at the click of his manicured fingers, I had to wait for my instrument of torture to be delivered by Brian the Postie. It was worth it in the end, as readers of the series will know, anticipation is a big part of pleasure.

BFL measured.

 My fleece may be innocent but it comes from a breed I associate with dark deeds.  Blue Faced Leicester reminds me of a gangster with a serious case of five o' clock shadow. The sort of fellow who would hang out in Gin Joints with Dutch Schultz and Pretty Boy Floyd.  Stubborn, twisted and hard to pin down. The kind of guy who only gives up his secrets after a good going over.  He'll stick together with others of his kind when agitated and placed in hot water.  As with all gangster cliches,  Blue Faced Leicester has a soft side, when all goings over have been gone over, the secrets he gives up are the palest, cloudiest puffs of fibre. Unless the puffs are left unguarded in a basket in the company of a large cat. Drawn by the smell of the sheep, the beast will immediately park his furry body in the basket whereupon the puffs will deflate faster than a souffle in a stiff breeze.

Puffs of fibre, ripe for deflating.

The fibre, deflated or not, spins beautifully. It takes time and effort to get from wrangling with gangster fleece to spinning a law abiding yarn and there are other, quicker, ways to create cloth.  I could get the fibre ready prepared, or I could buy yarn instead of fibre. I could even buy a jumper instead of knitting one. So why don't I? Because when I do,  it feels like I'm jumping into the middle of the story.  Imagine picking up  Jane Eyre and starting at the place where she says; " Reader, I married him. " with no knowledge of what had gone before.  No orphanage, no governessing, no budding romance with Mr Rochester, no first wife in the attic. So much of what makes the story compelling would be lost. That's how it is with me and Blue Faced Leicester. Sometimes the most satisfying way is begin at the beginning and to work out the ending for yourself.

Sun on the fur. Perfect.

In other news, we caught a small sneak of sunshine. Magnus gave up on his fibre squashing escapades and planted his bulk on top of the bulbs instead.