I think I am sinking deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond, at least as far as knitting is concerned. But Mel and David are safely married, and the Drummond Place Garden Party was all the jollier for taking place in the rain. I knit only a row or two yesterday – I’m half way through the patterned border at the bottom of the back of the dinosaur sweater. I am of two minds as to whether to continue today, or knock off for some pleasant scarf-time.

Two of the newspapers we read celebrated the solstice yesterday with articles about Unst, the most northerly inhabited point of the British Isles. Neither mentioned knitting, which is roughly like writing about Champagne without mentioning sparkling wine, but one was good enough to cut out and keep anyway. There used to be a radar station there, watching for Russians. When it finally closed, the island lost half its population.

I strongly suspect I’ll never get to Lake Van, or to the Sicilian village which inspired the fictional Donnafugata, but I still cling to the hope of seeing Lerwick one day, and going on to Unst.

We’ve had another donation to our Obama-thermometer, after a long drought, and I’ve matched it.