Day Three, already, of This Week. I am gibbering with terror, but I think everything is fairly well in hand. I’ll feel better once my husband is safely on that train tomorrow. Rachel is going to meet him at Kings Cross.

I have scarcely touched knitting needles lately.

We had a grand weekend in Strathardle with the Greeks. All too brief. Sunday lunch was a particular triumph:

A large organic chicken, and I got it right. Not roasted to desiccation, nor did it, with everyone sitting expectantly around the table, ooze pink juices as the carver made the first two or three incisions. With it we ate absolute gallons of mange-tout peas ( but I don’t feel on top of the question of how best to cook them) and afterwards, the 2009 Summer Pudding.

I had netted the red current bush before the previous departure, and we got the whole crop, nearly three pounds, more than enough for a big pudding. Just as well, the netting, because the birds in the interval had stripped the white currents. I thought they’d leave those alone.

The rest of the garden looks reasonably well, although the potatoes don’t seem quite as perky as they ought to be at this stage. Needless to say, there’s no trace of salsola soda. That’s not strictly true: there is one tiny plant which I think must be it. My only remaining ambition for ’09 is for it to get big enough to allow me a taste.