Growing up. Regressing. Whatever.

I've been mildly diverted, of late, by reflecting on the surprising turns my life has taken. Ten years ago I would probably have described myself as a Luddite. Now, while I'm hardly a serious technophile, I'm confident (or foolhardy) enough to be launching a business venture that depends entirely on this mysterious, nebulous thing we like to call The Hypercyberinterweb. That's surprising. For that matter, the idea that I — a financial coward of note — am "launching a business venture" is quite astonishing in itself. And so on.

But what is, frankly, bizarre, is the level of excitement engendered by this.


It is, you will observe, a box. A triangular box. A box vaguely reminiscent of a gi-huge Toblerone, but that completely fails to explain my giddiness, because (a) having ordered 25 of these boxes in each of two sizes, having had them arrive in their flat, pre-assembly state, I am obviously well aware that there is no chocolate anywhere near them, and (b) I don't really like Toblerone. So whence the thrill?

Oh, but this box, Dear Readers, this box will change my life. This box, you see, in its deliciously unexpected form, is the perfect packaging for knitting needles. This box will reduce packaging time to at most a quarter of what it was before; it will better protect the goods, it will look more professional, it will reduce the risk of mixing up orders. Plus, it's pretty darn cute. So this box was delivered to great scroobious fanfare. And I mused idly on how weirdly grown up I was, to take such pleasure in such an objectively dull, useful, business-related item.

Until a friend pointed out that infants, too, are vastly entertained by cardboard boxes.