I am a bit less lame this morning. I was brought up with the deepest respect for tetanus, Tamar, but I thought I didn’t need to worry this time a) because the wound bled freely and b) because the knitting needles have led a quiet life far from animals. Except for Scandinavian wool, but surely….

Maybe I’d better look it up.

I haven’t done anything yet about the carpet -- a pretty slovenly approach to life. I’d be afraid to try peroxide – a bleached spot there would look far worse than a faded blood stain. I’d better try cold water today. I remember from my nappy-washing days that that is the first line of attack for a serious stain.

Yesterday was rather unsatisfactory. I’ve never been keen on Sunday. Three Scottish rugby players, tip-top ones at that, were injured so badly in that wretched game with Wales that they won’t be playing again this season. One may be crippled – we are waiting anxiously for news.

And knitting didn’t go very well, either.

I’m knitting the ear-flap hat with two strands of wool held together, which produces a nice, firm, cosy fabric. I set off yesterday to incorporate a Fair Isle-type star, using the red I used for the lining, and soon discovered that there wasn’t enough. OK, so the centre of the star will be blue – the “beautiful blue” of the swallowtail coat I knit for Thomas-the-Elder’s teddy bear.

Then I ran out of one strand of the main colour. That was simply poor forward planning. I could cut the yarn and wind off half of the substantial remaining ball. But the sensible and forward-looking thing to do is to wind another skein. They are 100-gram skeins of fingering yarn, not a trivial chore. Perhaps I should do that today, so that at least the hat is ready to resume.


When I was preparing the hat for photography just now, I found all three projects -- sleeve, hat and sock -- to some extent tangled together. A record.

And I’ve still to finish the toe of that sock, to be taken to lunch tomorrow. Marcella, you put the need for it awfully well in yesterday’s comment.

Non-knit

I’ve been reading Stieg Larsson, inspired by a conversation with granddaughter Hellie, the one who works for a London agent and has her finger on the pulse of contemporary literature. I was aware of the books, of course, one could scarcely fail to be, but assumed they would be too violent and kinky and Swedish for me. All three of those elements are present, but the books are brilliant -- and far more like a conventional detective story than I would have imagined.

And brilliantly translated.

I’ve nearly finished the second one. The third will have to wait until it is reduced to paperback. I’m extravagant, as you all know, when it comes to knitting books, but buying a thriller in hardback remains an extravagance too far.