I mean to take life by the throat today – apply for my new driving license; make some phone calls about the coming-down of the dining room ceiling next Wednesday; make a list, at least, of other pressing tasks.
I’m half-way from heel to ribbing.
I feel terribly sorry for poor Helen C.K.S. who has let herself finish something without thinking what to do next. The most bereft of feelings. I mean to go on to socks for Alexander. My first thought was that he would have to wait, because I only have 100 grams of his yarn and that means the toes will have to end in something else and I’m having my toe-up phase at the moment. I can hardly switch yarns on him half-way up the leg.
But, on reflection, there is really no problem. I can start with the something-else. There are top-down socks in my husband’s sock drawer, knit in the fashion just mentioned, which will give me a good idea when it’s safe to switch to the main yarn.
It will be hard to leave off Zauberball-knitting, even for a little while.
A dreadful thing: I found moths this week on the madelinetosh yarn which will eventually become my Effortless or Vitamin D or that twisted-front thingy from VK. I got rid of them and the yarn is in the freezer, filling an uncomfortable amount of space. It has been there three days. Is that long enough? I must take it out soon – I need the space for food – and make sure it’s dry and then put it in a chest where I think it will be safe.
I mention this because there was strong evidence that the moths were (like me) particularly enthusiastic about madelinetosh and ignoring other pure wool yarns equally accessible nearby. Colour? – the way birds will strip the red current bush while ignoring the white currents? Or what?
I got “Fruit and Vegetables for
yesterday, by Kenneth Cox and Caroline Beaton, ordered on the strength of a
review in the Scotsman last Saturday. I was afraid the authors wouldn’t know
is a big place with a lot of climatic variation, but they do – it’s a good
It makes me determined to master some of the easys – notably kale, but also spring onions and beetroot. My sister and I have been corresponding about her parsley, which wasn’t doing at all well until moved to another part of the garden. I have no idea what was wrong – that never hinders an exchange of opinion between sisters. But my own pontificating has left me convinced that there must be a reason why the three things just mentioned come up, for me, and then just sit there, an inch and a half high, for the rest of the summer.
The two authors write separate parts of the book, rather than collaborating on the whole. I particularly like this, in the pages on rhubarb: “With a nod in the direction of Nigel Slater, Caroline recommends baked rhubarb served with crispy fillets of mackerel. I can’t think of anything worse, myself.”