Very little to say, this morning. Both packages mentioned yesterday had arrived by the early afternoon: that was something. Only one contained plants, broccoli and lettuce. Despite a full week of incarceration, I am hopeful that the majority will pull through. I have heeled them in amongst the pansies and herbs in troughs on the doorstep. They are pale and wan, but haven’t flopped over.
I could do one of my day trips to Strathardle next week – am I still strong enough? Or wait until the ceiling comes down, the week after, when we will certainly be there.
The other package was a big heavy art book. I was expecting some red Welsh onion plants from someone called Vegplugs, ordered May 17. I emailed yesterday, asking where they are. I keep sowing seeds of Welsh onions – including some this year, and they have come up. But I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. The Finnish “walking onions” I bought as plants last year are in fine fettle, and I feel it is time to adopt the same approach to Welsh ones.
The socks are still un-bound-off. I’ve got eight rounds to do – I should certainly reach the bind-off today. I am much encouraged by your enthusiasm (comments yesterday) for Jeni’s Surprisingly Stretchy Bind-Off. It looks like something that will be easily grasped and internalised once I get started.
E., I greatly like your idea (comment yesterday, again) of starting a sock, knitting half the foot, and then starting the other one, so that all that fiddly toe business would be behind one. The only drawback in my case is that I have only one set of the square Knit-Pic needles of which I have become very fond.
But that’s easily remedied.
Sarah JS, your warning is a timely one, about today’s lunch party. C. died on March 21 last year – when we met on June 2 to celebrate her 80th birthday, we were all still in shock at the sheer unlikelihood of Death, and all enjoyed ourselves. It could be trickier this time, when old subterranean tensions have had time to regroup.
C’s and my husband’s father died young. His parents (C’s and my husband’s grandparents) had the grim task of organising his funeral. The title deed to the plot in Mt Vernon cemetery, here in
was left to my husband by his grandfather. When C. decided that she wanted to
be buried with her father, my husband handed the deed over to one of her
daughters. It has never been returned. Edinburgh
We have no future use for it. At least, I don’t think he wants to be buried there himself – his dust will be far separated from mine, if so. (Our grandson Oliver is in the little graveyard in K*rkmichael: we will be able to point out for him our house and fields while everybody is standing around in the general confusion before the Last Judgment. And we will be among old friends -- think "Our Town", if you've ever seen it.) But the deed belongs to my husband, and its non-return rankles. I don’t think he would bring the subject up over lunch, but he might.