It was not an entirely successful day, today. My husband was/is sort of dopy, didn't want to be got out of bed this morning. I insisted on that, for the sake of some post-insulin breakfast, but dopiness persisted and he spent much of the day in bed. A dr came, found his Vital Signs in pretty good shape (oxygen saturation and temperature, at least), prescribed a just-in-case antibiotic given his history of chest and urine infections, and given the total shut-down of the country for the next week.
So, some anxiety and not much knitting. However, I have reached the final quarter of the fourth side of the edging of Mrs Hunter's shawl, and, with only seven scallops to go, should have finished easily by the start of next year.
I was grateful, as always, for your comments yesterday. It was good to know that you didn't all think my anecdote about the lovely celery completely absurd. And I was very glad to learn that you had looked up the Torquatus ode, pgknitter. I know it by heart, as well as Eheu fugaces Postume, Postume, and trust they will be comforting to me on my deathbed. Perhaps I should memorise a third.
James' and Cathy's Christmas present to my husband, opened only yesterday, turned out not to be for him at all: it is a wonderful machine in which you can pursue a toy mouse -- if you are a cat. Perdita loves it.