My republican sympathies deepen. When you next hear from me, it will probably be from the barricades.
I discovered yesterday morning that water has been coming down from the flat above through our dining room ceiling. This has happened before, over the years, and I had been suspicious, a week ago, that it was happening again. Don't be paranoid, I said to myself. This morning, there was no doubt.
I went upstairs and spoke to the tenants, young ladies with proper accents. They were all sitting around the kitchen table when I arrived, with friends, and a laptop computer. The leading youing lady took me to see the bathroom, whence, I suspect, the trouble stems -- and one of the ones remaining at the table spoke the line above, "How very stressful", as we left the room.
They gave me their telephone number, which I can ring if I can catch water in the act; and also the owner's. I rang her, and spoke to her cook, also very proper of accent. Mrs Carson is out on a shoot, she said. A movie star? I wondered. No -- field sports. I left our phone number. She didn't phone. She had a big dinner on that evening, the cook said, and no doubt she needed a shower after a day in the field.
To be continued...
I tried it on yesterday, and the tight peripheral i-cord felt like a garotte. So I didn't wait for blocking; I took it out right away, and got a good two-thirds of the way around on the second attempt. I've got the right needle size this time, I think. I love the yarn (Debbie Bliss' "Maya".) It's like having a tabby cat in my lap.