I thot the Sussexes would have a girl. So much more chic, these days. Still, I wish them well. The poor little thing will bear the burden I have inflicted on my children – namely, that as the son of an American citizen, the IRS will have a legal – I won’t go so far as to say, legitimate -- interest in every penny he owns.

Trump promised to straighten that one out, before he was elected, but since then he seems to have had other things to think about.

We had a jolly weekend, but I am tired. Rachel and Ed got here in good order on Friday evening. The Contaldo Italian stew wasn’t as good as the last time I made it – I put in too much meat this time. On Saturday morning, my niece C. – my husband’s sister’s daughter, Rachel’s cousin – came round with her gentleman friend. It was brave of him to submit himself to the ordeal of Drummond Place, and he won the hearty approval of all.

On Sunday we had lunch at Greek Helen’s house, which is in the process of being sold. C. came, and her daughter and son-in-law Christina and Manaba (last year’s wedding). A jolly but rather vegetarian time was had by all. I taught Helen’s son Fergus the quatrain by Roy Campbell, “On Some South African Novelists”:

          You praise the firm restraint with which they write.

              I’m with you there, of course.

          They use the snaffle and the curb all right.

              But where’s the bloody horse?

That’s what my husband always said, when I tried to slip a vegetarian meal past him: Where’s the bloody horse?

Rachel and Ed went off yesterday afternoon. Archie came this morning and, amongst other usefulnesses, gave me a telephone lesson. I hope I am now up to speed with WhatsApp.

The Calcutta Cup scarf progresses. I do love the yarn called Croft, and if I survive to get to Shetland next week, I’ll see it in Jamieson & Smith. But equally, if I mean to attempt that Sharon Miller shawl (the yarn for which could also be purchased at Jamieson & Smith) I’d better get started on it. The remaining years are not many.