Well, the other day she decided to wash it, in the washing machine, and when you wash (and dry) a textile made of many different types of fibre, this is what happens:
It's much smaller than it used to be, but fortunately she still loves it. I agree that it is stunning, and now I want to go out and shrink everything that I've woven. I can't stop taking pictures of it. It looks like some sort of fabulous rock formations. I suggested that she might call it the "White Cliffs of Dover", but she scoffed and said that a blanket doesn't need a name, even though she has named her trumpet (Garth), her computer (Miranda) and her ficus plant (Lloyd).