Off to Strathardle today for a two-night’er to prevent the courgettes turning into vegetable marrows and to cut the grass if I feel strong enough. The electric starter motor has died the death. When I was young and read Agatha Christie, I used to find “vegetable marrow” the most puzzling of phrases. Do we have them in America? I'm sure they could be grown, with ease, but they are about as unsatisfactory as a vegetable can get.

Edinburgh has been wrapped in haar the last few days. It will be nice to see the sky, even if rain is falling out of it.

I’ve solved the Games Accommodation problem – not necessarily to everyone’s satisfaction, but at least none of them will be sleeping under the stars.

And I’ve attached the shoulders of the dinosaur sweater, and one sleeve. The three-needle bind-off looks fine. The sleeve-hole looks too shallow.

Comments

Cazzab, you’re right that there’s a frisson about reading a book by someone you know well. Dear Preceptor continues interesting, but Higginson himself is rather a bore, as my mother acknowledges in various ways. Things should liven up when Emily Dickenson finally appears on stage. I won’t take it to Kirkmichael – that’s where I read the New Yorker and Kitchen Garden magazine.

Shandy, the thought of a herd of 70 deer in Essex is unnerving. And reminds me that I mustn’t take my vegetables for granted. The rabbits might have tunnelled in. The deer might have paid a summer visit. Heaven help us, the sheep could have figured out the route.

Back here Friday, insh’Allah. Next month!