"This wool is so gorgeous; it comes form Wales."
"You so silly, whales don't have wool."
The balls of wool were a rainbow before its colours shone full bright, softly glowing as if promising to grow all the bolder.
The clack of the knitting needles had a pleasant mesmerising sensation on my brain, as if the sound was massaging it ever so gently. I'd reach out my child-sized hand to touch the wool, sensing its softness, taking in its pastel hue with my peak-happiness brain.
The wool jiggled over the arm of the chair as if it were the world's most tame snake caught in a fit of giggles.
I would imagine the wool as the finest of pillows for any fairy princess, soft and with the scent of wild roses.