Squee
Today over lunch I went to the Covered Market to get some Armenian sausages (can those be chopped up prior to cooking?) and I also went to a Charity Shop to get a cheap, cheesy novel. I walked out with a semi-serious book on India and 10 balls of Edina Ronay Rowan yarn in a rather bright fuschia which cost me £2.00. It is a lovely soft silk and woll mix, and I think it is going to become a luxurious pair of socks (the balls are tiny, so there isn't enough for a jumper or a waiscoat, especially not in my size). I am ever so pleased, and somehow the fact that my colleagues don't communicate and only tell me when I make mistakes and never whether these are normal mistakes or whether they regret the day they employed me seems less annoying. Maybe I can bring one of the balls to my desk and stroke it?