The nurses finally came and syringed my husband’s ears. He’s still a bit hard of hearing, but the transformation has been miraculous. Conversation is possible. I had coffee with a friend this morning, a bit hard of hearing herself, who reminded me that television offers the option of subtitles these days. I should have thought of that myself.
I broke the yellow tab off the Sirka this morning while struggling clumsily. I now don’t know whether I will replace it. It turns out to be more expensive than I remembered, and I wonder if moving those pointers is, in fact, quicker than leaning forward and making marks on a piece of paper. More fun, yes, the Sirka is that.
At the moment, I am counting some things it can’t help with – the overall number of rows since the underarm, so that front and back will be the same size; the number of times I have decreased at the neck edge every fourth row (Sirka could do that); and exactly where I am in the every-fourth-row sequence. So far so good, but I’ll be glad when the front is finished.
I got to work charting another lozenge. I’m getting there. It doesn’t really matter whether or not I get it absolutely right, as long as the result is symmetrical both horizontally and vertically. I wonder if they’d sell me the pattern on its own.
Tomorrow is Lizzie’s birthday, the youngest of Rachel’s four children. I’m sure I must have told you that when I was young, you could claim your infant child as a dependent for the whole of a tax year no matter what day of that year it was born on – so one born on the last day of the tax year, as Lizzie was, was money for jam, as the saying goes. Alas, by the time Lizzie was born, that pleasant rule had been changed.