I would like to state categorically, for the record, that nobody at my house who is supposed to be writing a book did any spinning over the weekend. Because, if they did, that might display a lack of self-discipline.
And while I am making sweeping proclamations, I would also like to state that the person(s) at my house who did NOT make yarn this weekend, because doing so would be setting a bad example for the children, also did NOT ply and finish 473 delectable yards of same.
Which is good, because if said person(s) were to spin and ply 473 yards of delicious three-ply Cormo over the weekend, then that yarn would be as soft as dandelion fluff, that is wrapped around a baby bunny butt and then put on the "Fluff" cycle. The yarn that might result from such wanton dereliction of duty could possibly be the softest and fluffiest substance yet known to man, causing unrest and discord amongst the population of the world, as all fought to come over to my house and touch it.
And if there were really 473 yards of such luscious, buttery, sproingy handspun available to our kind, we might just leave off all productive activity in pursuit of getting our greedy hands on some more of it. Enough, say, for that fluffy Aran sweater we've been dreaming of.
If the first three hypothetical bobbins produced 473 alleged yards of dream-yarn, then a person who allowed herself to think about such things might just calculate that she only needed about 9 or so more bobbins worth of spinning, and she'd have enough. To knit a sweater that she's not at liberty to make, due to book deadlines.
So it's a good thing that none of that happened around here last weekend. Just saying.