We’re going to Strathardle today (my husband has suddenly announced). I approach the ordeal with some trepidation – it’ll be cold (but no snow). It’ll be stormy. (Forth Road Bridge closed?) Will I be allergic to the house again and come back with a fortnight’s-worth of coughing and breathlessness? Blogging should resume on Tuesday.
Knitting-wise, it’ll be déjà vu all over again. The Strathardle project is that dusty pink Araucania sweater of virtually the same pattern as the one here. But up there, I’ve only got six inches (at best) done of the body. Whereas here, top-sleeve shaping should begin next session.
But it’s time to engage seriously with the happiest gardening chore of the year – finalising the seed order. This year’s plan is to keep it simple, and concentrate on things that will grow, like broad beans. Except for the Edinburgh doorstep, where I intend to try for chillis.
I heard from Helen in Athens yesterday. She proposes skipping Hartford and trying to synchronise our arrival at JFK so that she can hire a car and drive us both the rest of the way. I think she thinks it’s not worth all the trouble and expense of getting to the USofA if one doesn’t get to see that skyline. We’ll see. Schipol airport sounds better and better with every comment; by now, I’d be sorry to miss it. I remember JFK as utterly confusing.
Like America itself, by now. The last time I saw my mother was in late ’02. I left my husband behind in NYC for a day of art on his own, and took the train to Old Saybrook. We were staying in a miniscule apartment of Theo’s somewhere East Side-ish, so my journey began with the subway.
First I went cross-town, then I had to change. I remember a platform with trains going in different directions on either side of it. Lots of destinations were mentioned, but nothing basic like “Uptown” or “Downtown”. Which was which? I asked somebody and got it right.
Then I got out at “Grand Central Station”. I came up to the street. I looked around. There was nothing to be seen, in any direction, which could possibly be Grand Central Station. (It turned out to be around the corner.) When you emerge from the subway at a London terminal, you are in the station.
It’s memories like that which make JFK an uninviting prospect.
Knitter’s great days – at least some of them, at least recently – were when Nancy Thomas edited it. It might be interesting to go back through those issues. Before that – am I right? – she had edited VK. She went off to work for Classic Elite, or something of the sort, didn’t she?
I am beginning to feel that there are other magazines I ought to add to my groaning shelves. What’s this one called Knit.1?