I had a nice time yesterday, very pleasant doctor roughly the age of my grandson Thomas-the-Elder. I had another ECG, and the famous echo test, and an examination and a lot of questions, and have been told that there is nothing wring with my heart. He thought less cider would be a good idea, with which I am inclined to agree, but didn't make a great song and dance about it, and didn't even commit himself to the idea that cider was responsible for recent symptoms.
So what was all that about?
The Beijing Mileses are in the throes of exams, both A Levels for Alistair and AS's for Rachel-the-younger, as well as the excitement of moving back to Britain after what amounts, for the children, to a lifetime in China. The problem (amongst many) that would have me in a cold sweat is their discovery that they will lose James's working visa the moment he hands in his journalist's card, and must acquire tourist visas for their last few hours in Beijing. But the company shipping their furniture, and the one exporting the cat, need the working visas to be in place until the last minute
The cost of the cat's journey will be roughly the same as a business class fare, James says.
Little to report. I still haven't picked up my sister's shawl. It's now or never. And I didn't even finish round 68 – the imaginary half-way point – of the Unst Bridal Shawl yesterday, although I am within sight of the end. And I didn't see anything of interest on Zite this mornng.