Another donation, from Texas – wonderfully cheering on a grey day. I’ve matched it. However this thing ends, we’ll all remember that we were here for the Presidential campaign of Ought Eight.
I saw a little clip of Mrs Clinton offering to nuke Iran on the BBC early evening news on Tuesday (normally devoted to paedophiles and Gordon Brown’s problems). I have acquired a grudging admiration for her energy and stamina as this thing has gone on, but on Tuesday I thought she looked terrible, like Elizabeth Tudor towards the end, a mask of make-up with the face crumbling behind.
A much more cheerful topic. Thank you for the question, Mary Lou. (That link is worth following, for an account of a Franklin photo-session.) This year I’m growing Pink Fir Apple, Picasso, Red Duke of York, and Rocket. I buy them from Alan Romans – the link will do you no good at all, but it might amuse you to see the richness of choice. But I really wonder if it matters: you may have fewer to choose from, but they’ll be the right ones for the area.
Alexander wrote yesterday to ask which way up to plant his potatoes. It is rare that I am asked a question I can answer with such confidence.
I have tenderly packed mine and we hope to be off to Strathardle this morning. The Red Dukes of York have much bigger sprouts than the other varieties. Pink Fir Apple is a salad potato much fancied by the sort of people who fancy arugula (poor Mr Obama). I grew it when we lived in Leicester 40 years ago (yikes!) and the harvest was full of worm holes. I thought it was time to try again.
Pleasant and productive as sock-knitting is, it doesn’t provide much in the way of conversation. I finished the dreaded ribbing of Rachel’s second sock yesterday. Kate, I loved your analogy of the yarn looking like jasmine tea. Once I am well embarked on the next pair, for Thomas-the-Elder, I’ll ask Cathy in Beijing whether she’d prefer soothing (from my collection of back Yarn Yard sock club editions) or electrifying (KF stripes).
This is perhaps too gloomy: there was one of those uplifting articles in the Sunday papers last week about overcoming anxiety. I read it, or part of it, just after a bad night, and I thought, but what if what you’re anxious about is really happening? What if you’re Annie and Gerry Modesitt and Gerry has multiple myloma? What if you’re Jean and What’s-His-Name Miles and you’re getting old and wonder how much longer you can go on looking after yourselves, let alone two houses? What if you’re going to be hanged next week?
The answer in all three cases, I suspect, is that today is happening and I can probably manage today.
Back next Wednesday.