Autumn has arrived at the boutique, and with it a new palette. Rust, for the leaves; moss, for the places leaves go; and porridge, which is the colour of a Sunday morning and nothing else. I have spent three weeks at the dye pot, and the walls are now stained a faint and rather lovely orange, which my landlord calls “a fine.”
The porridge skein is my favourite. It has no ambition. It does not want to be a jumper, or a scarf, or even a small hat. It wants to be a ball, and to lie on the arm of a chair while somebody reads. I think that is the most any of us could ask. I have priced it at $9, and I would sell it for less, if it did not seem so happy here.
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