I had a longish weekend in Madrid with my husband once, and remember the keen pleasure I felt, in the Prado, thinking, I can be here again tomorrow. That’s much how I felt yesterday – but now tomorrow has dawned, with much to be done.
I won’t try to blog tomorrow; my husband is said to be coming home early. Nor on Saturday (the birthday) or Sunday (everybody still around) or Monday (Rachel and Ed still here for a precious hour or two). I’ll see what I can do about Tuesday.
The hospital was excellent yesterday with pre-release briefings. I somewhat got the impression that they are anxious themselves about how all this is going to work, although glad to have the bed back.
I moved nicely down the leg of the 2nd Kaffe Fassett sock yesterday. I may well not go to the hospital today, leaving the visit to Helen. In that case, the sock is stuck for a while: 50 of 75 leg rounds done.
And, in the evening, I finished the 1st sleeve increases for the half-brioche. Now to choose a sleeve length – there won’t be much more to do before the interesting shoulder shapings.
I’m watching Nancy Marchant’s Brioche class on Craftsy as my good-night soporific. She’s terrific. She pronounces her name in an unexpected way. That set me to thinking of Bruce Weinstein, another favourite – both Craftsy and book. He pronounces the identical diphthongs in the two syllables of his surname differently. And that sent me on to Reince Priebus – the diphthongs are different there, and I’ve heard the BBC (I’m sure they’re careful) pronounce the name, but I can’t remember how it’s done. I want to sound them the same, in my head. Reence Preebus.
I’m reading Alan Bennett’s “Keeping On Keeping On” on my iPad – there won’t be much reading after tomorrow. It’s a pleasant compilation of his recent diary entries. He has an especially good line in overheard exchanges between elderly couples in supermarkets, who have had a lifetime to polish their barbs. I have never had much luck in that line, but I’ve got one, which I think Alan Bennett would enjoy.
We once went to see an Andy Goldsworthy exhibition at Inverlieth House. (Inverlieth House, alas, is no longer to be an exhibition site; much Edinburgh fuss.) I had never heard of Goldsworthy. We saw, amongst other wonderful things, a ceiling-to-floor curtain of autumn leaves woven together, astonishing and beautiful.
He: “All right if you have nothing better to do.”
She: “What better have we to do?”