It’s funny, being in Glasgow. I was very happy there, first as a student, then married. All our children were born there including therefore of course Alexander, 50 years ago this weekend. I’m pretty sure February 27 came at a weekend in 1960, perhaps even on a Saturday. Either on that day or maybe more likely the 26th, the engagement was announced between Princess Margaret and Anthony Armstrong Jones, whom no one had ever heard of. I had lots of delicious newspapers to read in the intervals of getting acquainted with Alexander.
So memories are fond, and Glasgow, as they say, has a lot going for it. But I feel it tugging me back, and it’s uncomfortable. There’s lots wrong with being old, but I don’t want to go through all the horrors of being young again, either. And I’m comfortable here in Drummond Place.
All very odd. Still, Glasgow’s better than New Jersey.
Knitting went well. I finished Rachel’s KF socks, the first FO of ’10, and cast on the next pair, another KF, this time for Ketki. She prefers them a bit longer in the leg. With a new-to-me KF colourway in hand, I found myself knitting as fast as I could – not very fast – just to see how the colours deploy. With the result that the ribbing is done, and I’m ready to canter down the leg. These socks will be laid aside now, of course, to take their place in waiting-room-and-away-from-home moments.
The plan is to spend today on the ear-flap hat. I ought to be able to get it somewhere near the bobble-making moment.
Tomorrow I will return to the Grandson. I mean to leave the first sleeve dangling and start afresh on the second, setting it in from the outside guided by Cynthia’s and Rebecca’s comments. If as successful as I hope, I will then go back and finish unpicking the first attempt and do likewise by it.
Alexander told us a joke.
Two cats set out to swim the Channel, racing against each other. One was an English cat called One Two Three. The other was a French cat called Un Deux Trois.
One Two Three cat won the race.
Un Deux Trois cat sank.