Freecell has been miraculously restored to me. Every time I turn this old laptop on and sit down to it, I begin by asking for the Microsoft Solitaire Collection. For the last few evenings, the blue screen has come up with those words on it, and with the hourglass symbol next to the cursor as if it were trying. Then no more. But tonight, just as I was about to give up, there it was. Did I not wait long enough, on the other evenings? I don’t think it was that. Anyway, I’m glad to see it.

 

I found the menu plan for the “real” colonoscopy. The first day is not too bad – much like both days of my present regime, and with butter allowed on one’s white bread. But on the second day, no food at all, just liquids. That was where I feared I’d be too weak, and risk falling. I suspect the laxative was more savage, too. My husband had a colonoscopy once, and he had diabetes. I can’t imagine how we got through it.

 

I’ve done some knitting. Helen and Fergus (her youngest son) are going to drop in this evening, on their way back from the airport. Fergus is home from Bristol University for the weekend, and Helen is bringing me yet another soup, made in her new machine.  So I’ll have to sit up until they get here, and will try to knit some more. It’s getting a bit easier, as I keep steadily at it, but I’m still progressing very slowly.

 

I continued the search for those missing patterns, with no success. I’ve eliminated a lot of waste paper from the sitting room, and my step count – still pretty feeble – is higher than usual today, because of tottering about to put things away. Daniela and I got around the garden. I should take a picture for you of the Drummond Place snowdrops. They’re beautiful, and lift the spirits. It was cold today, but the sun was shining.

 

 

 

I couldn’t walk today because I was waiting in for a delivery. Tomorrow, that will be the story again. All very tedious. The weather was bright today, although cold. You can just begin to see the light coming back, if you look at the edges.

 

There’s some confusion about what I wrote yesterday. It’s partly – rather, mostly – the fault of medical vocabulary, I think. The procedure I am going to have next Thursday is a CT scan. It’s called a colonoscopy presumably because the colon is what they will be scanning, but it doesn’t involve sticking a camera up my bottom or having a sedative. The preparation doesn’t sound much fun, but is much easier than for a proper colonoscopy. I will get myself a loaf of the whitest sliced bread and, if possible, a jar of jelly marmalade (no peel). Sometimes I will have the bread with Marmite, which I love. And for lunch I will have a pseudo-ramen: stock from a stock-cube perhaps seasoned with soy sauce and fish sauce; some ramen noodles; and a hard boiled egg. I don’t know for sure if the low-sugar bitter lemon I rely on for support in the absence of cider, is OK. I think it should be. Sweeteners are allowed, and there’s no fiber in it. I can’t find the menu they sent for the proper colonoscopy, but I’m sure it was much more severe.

 

The question remains, what is all this for? If they find anything sinister, the only thing to do, at my age, will be to cut to the morphine.

 

I got a bit more knitting done. I should have done more. Daniella wasn’t here, as she was taking one of her sons to a dentist. I started sorting through piles of paper in the sitting room, looking for three missing patterns, all of which I’ve had not that long ago: Carol Sunday’s Machu Picchu, the Jamieson & Smith Fair Isle leg warmer pattern, and that Kate Davies yoke sweater I was knitting on our most recent cruise. Surely they’re all together somewhere. I didn’t find any of them. I found a lot of interesting things which are now strewn around the sitting room in various little piles, all waiting to be put in their proper places.

 

Here is our weekly salad factory picture – four weeks, I think. I have eaten two salads taken from the first two lingots, reading from right to left: lettuce and rocket (arugula). Next is another, different lettuce, and then basil.

 

 

 

I’ve got Microsoft Word back, anyway. It was a matter of switching the machine off and on again. Archie was no help – he thinks I should get a new computer. This one is old, as computers go – eight years at least. And it runs Windows 8. That's bad, according to Archie.

 

I didn’t try to go out today – bath day. And I got a get-out-of-jail-free card in the post: a summons from the NHS for a “CT colonoscopy minimum preparation examination”. “Minimum preparation” is still pretty severe – no fruit or vegetables or red meat, minimum fat, minimum dairy, for two days. But sugar and floppy white bread and white pasta are allowed so one shouldn’t faint. There is a little bottle of something to take three times a day while staying near a lavatory. The actual ordeal is on Thursday of next week. Get-out-of-jail-free, because I feel I can not do anything I don’t want to do, between now and then. I will be very tempted to drink a bottle of cider when I get back from the hospital next Thursday, too.

 

I got a bit more knitting done. I think I’ve done enough decreases for the v-neck. From now on, I’ll just add length. My Dry January calendar – on which, as I’ve said, I proudly paste a “Stayed Dry” sticker every evening – serves as a worrying how-is-that-vest-getting-on? calendar, since this year’s Calcutta Cup comes so early in February.

 

And I had a second tasty salad from my Salad Machine today.

 

 

 I am being persecuted by computers – starting with the disappearance of Freecell.

We discovered yesterday that Google Mail is sending all messages from Alexander to Spam. I thought he was mad at me. He knows a lot about computers, and works from home on one. He doesn’t know why this is happening. And we can’t even blame it on Microsoft.

 And now I’ve had trouble loading Word. (My practice is to compose there and save to Dropbox and then copy it over to Blogger.) I have succeeded in the end, although only in “safe mode”. And it turns out that "safe mode" doesn't know about Dropbox and where I usually save things. 

 We had sunshine again today, and Helen came to walk with me, but I felt too feeble to get around the garden. (So much for temperance.) We got there, and I sat for a while on a damp bench. Better than nothing.

 And I got some knitting done, too.

 I hope those of you on the Eastern Seaboard aren’t suffering too much. My cheetahs clearly don’t like it, evidenced by the fact they they are indoors. Indeed the whole zoo (DC) is closed because of “inclement weather”.

 

We had a bit of sunshine today. It does help. I got around the garden with C., very slowly.

 

I ate a little green salad from my salad machine. C. brought me two Seville oranges, and I used one of them to make a vinaigrette for it. Very tasty.

 

And I knit. It’s still agonizingly difficult, the more so now that it is divided by three steeks (armholes and v-neck) so that one has to figure out where one is in the pattern three times per round. There are two rounds in which nothing much happens, evenly all the way around. The following round, in each case, is still very difficult for me: the pattern is two lozenge-shapes, squares tipped on end. One is always expanding while the other contracts, and at the mid-way point they change places. It is important, after those do-nothing rounds to be sure I’ve got it right, which is which and where am I. It seems to involve a lot of time and a lot of unpicking.

 

But I remain confident that I’m going to get it done in time. I only need about three more inches, and the circumference is much reduced by the steeks.

 

Current Events

 

It’s hard to say why I feel sorry for Prince Andrew, Tandah. When our Cardinal O’Brien was disgraced, I felt sorry for him, too. For a while it looked as if he was going to assist the parish priest in a small town not far from Edinburgh. The priest and the congregation were eager to have him, but somebody – presumably the Vatican – said no, and he went into idle exile in England. A friend of his remarked, “He’s lost everything. Isn’t that enough?”

 

Your point is a good one, Cat, that Prince Andrew seems to have been singled out because of who he is. Clinton and Bill Gates have both been mentioned in this sad story – nobody’s suing them. A columnist in the Sunday Times today makes a good point which hadn’t occurred to me: namely that London 20 years ago was full of lovelies who would have welcomed an overnight invitation to Buckingham Palace. Did he really need to have one flown in from Florida? It should be noted that 17 wasn’t (and isn’t) under-age for sex in Britain.

 

But apart from that columnist -- Jeremy Clarkson – the tone today was very hostile and anti-monarchy.

 

I thought maybe Freecell would come back by magic, but it hasn’t. I’ve Googled the problem, which has happened to other people before, but I have failed to perform the actions required. I’ve found a new copy, free, in the Microsoft Store, but they say they don’t have a record of any suitable appliance of mine to install it on. So I’ve given up. Archie is coming to see me next week. He’s young, and relatively computer-savvy, but I think this lies outside his field of expertise.

 

Otherwise all is much as before. A dull, grey day, warm for January. I got around the garden with Helen. I moved the knitting forward. If I can keep up this pace, I’ll have no difficulty in finishing before this year’s Cup Day – three weeks from today, I think. I had an awful tussle with it this evening. I think it’ll have to be photographed in soft focus.

 

Of our three interesting villains (Djokovic, the Prime Minister, Prince Andrew) it begins to look as if it may be the Prime Minister who gets away with it. I feel rather sorry for poor silly Prince Andrew. I’m glad he’s got Fergie, at least – they still live under the same roof and seem to be on cordial terms.

 

It seems an extraordinary coincidence that Mrs Sakoolas should come back into the news this very week. She killed a motorcyclist a couple of years ago now, by colliding with him while she was driving on the wrong side of the road. She fled home to the U.S. (after assuring the police that she would stay put, I think) and has since then been claiming diplomatic immunity. The British have applied to have her extradited; the Americans have refused. She has been formally accused (of Dangerous Driving, I suppose) and we were told that she was going to make an appearance by Zoom in a London magistrate’s court next week, but she has withdrawn at the last moment. She has offered apologies and compensation, I think, but the dead boy’s parents have refused. They want to see her in court.

 

Maybe Prince Andrew should adopt the Sakoolas system.

 

Another pretty good day. Still grey -- it would be nice to see the sun – but still very easy, as winters go. I got around the garden. Kirsten, I’m sure I wouldn’t be walking if the weather were anything like yours. I don't care for cold, and I'm scared to death of slippery. And, yes, it’s wonderful how good it makes you feel to plant a seed and see it come up. I think I will be able to eat a very modest green side-salad from my salad factory soon – two kinds of lettuce and some rocket.

 

My computer did one of those maddening “updates” when I turned it off last night – and now, it won’t load Freecell. That’s more of a New Year’s resolution than I feel entirely ready for.

 

Knitting went well. I’ve done the arithmetic, counted and re-counted the stitches, placed the steek for the v-neck opening, finished the decreases at the sides. I’m relying a lot on your Rylan pattern, Mary Lou, for which I am daily grateful. I have come to a decision, too. If Scotland win the Calcutta Cup again this year, I will knit J’s leg-warmers with a “22”. If not, they’ll be “21” as promised.

 

The history of the cup, as you relate it from the Antiques Road Show is much as I have heard it, Shandy, melted-down rupees and all, except that I thought it was England v. Scotland, even in India, rather than England v. The Rest of the World. Once they got the cup back here, it was England and Scotland from then on. I drive past the field where it was first contested on my way to Waitrose. They still play rugby there.

 

The knitting news from the outside world is that Arnall-Culliford is closing down, at least for the moment. Jen is ill. They’re having a sale – I haven’t looked. The last thing in the world I need is more yarn, and there isn’t really room for more books. This is sad news, though. I hope things turn for the better for them soon.

 

 

 

 

 

A pretty good day. I got around the garden, and embarked on the underarm decreases of wee Hamish's Calcutta Cup vest, next to the steeks. I thought perhaps what I might do this evening is the arithmetic: how wide do I want the shoulders to be at the end, allowing for ribbing at both neck and sleeve-hole? How many stitches on each side does that amount to? When do I start the neck steek, and how fast do I decrease thereafter? But I’ve just discovered that a new Americast is up, and it’s about Prince Andrew. So perhaps I’ll actually knit this evening, while I listen to it. One more round couldn’t hurt. One of the Americast regulars is Emily Maitlis who conducted the infamous interview with Prince Andrew.

 

What a delicious start to the year, to have Boris and Prince Andrew and Novak Djokovic all providing us gossip-lovers with cliff-hangers, all at once!

 

I kept getting into trouble with the stitch pattern this morning, and having to frog a few stitches. Maybe I’ve lost my touch – maybe Alexander’s Calcutta Cup vest will be my last great Fair Isle.

 I can’t even read the year on this photograph (we’ve won so often lately!) but could no doubt work it out. 2018, perhaps? 2019 was a draw – that was a scarf for Thomas Miles. I’m sort of sorry I didn’t see the cup on the Antiques Roadshow, Shandy. But I have seen the real thing, when I went on a tour of Murrayfield (the Scottish rugby ground) with C. and her son-in-law Manaba (Hamish’s father, a keen rugby player and follower). And it’s worth seeing.

 

I’ve promised leg warmers for 2021, as well as Hamish’s vest. I’ve bought the kit from Jamieson & Smith, and at present writing have lost the pattern. However, I’m sure that’s not serious. The recipient – we’ll call her J. – is full-grown so there’s not such a hurry. Hamish has to have his vest in time for this year’s match, in about three weeks from now.

 

 

A dull day. I got around the garden.

 

I got the tinking done (see yesterday) and the second steek cast on. Then I sank back, exhausted. However, later in the day I discovered that the Calcutta Cup will actually be contested during the first week of February, the 5^th or so. I’d better get cracking. I could finish the vest off with ordinary ribbing instead of corrugated if need be: that would speed things up a bit.

 

Here is my salad factory at the end of week 3, under its eerie light. Basil, far left, was slow to start but is now moving along nicely. I messed around with Youtube a bit, and discovered that I am not expected to wait until I can replace all four lingots; I can take them out and slot in replacements whenever. It is sort of embarrassing not to have thought of that myself. Sometime in June I am supposed to take the whole thing apart and clean it. I want to grow chillies. There are two chilli lingots, cayenne and jalapeno, but both are “out of stock”, the only ones that are.  But perhaps by the time I need them…

 

Archie is doing – I think I probably told you – a degree course to become a mental health nurse. The first term was almost entirely on-line (and not very demanding), but now he has embarked on his first placement and is full of enthusiasm. He is attached to a community health ward at a hospital in Haddington. So far he is only shadowing real nurses, but he will be there six weeks and may become more engaged. It sounds potentially depressing – the patients are mostly if not all elderly and somewhat demented. He will come and see me one day next week when I hope to learn more.

 

Shandy (comment yesterday): tell me more about that art programme. My husband was at the Barber Institute in Birmingham, but there were no W*lkies there. There is no need to be coy about the Barber Institute. I spell “D*vid W*lkie” like that because I don’t want any scholars to search for him, and even perhaps add “Miles”, and wind up here. There are lots of interesting narrative W*lkies, and I would like to have heard the attempt to link them to the pandemic.

 

I’m getting on fine with teetotalism. The secret is simple: there is no cider in the house. There are enough spirits, mostly good whiskey, to provide a bath; and some wine and vermouth and what-not in the kitchen for cooking, but I am not even remotely tempted. So if I did weaken, it would take me 48 hours at least to lay in a supply. February, if I attempt four-days-dry-three-days-cider again, will be much harder.

 

 

 

It was 100 years ago today, according to my newspaper, that the first insulin injection was given. That’s a landmark worth remembering.

 

It looked like quite a nice day out there. I stayed in, as planned, after my bath. I hope I’ll be strong enough to get out tomorrow. I have felt very feeble today.

 

But I’ve done some knitting. I’m ready for the underarm steeks. I’ve put in the first one, at the beginning/end point of the round, but I didn’t think out the position of the second one properly – it’s obvious, once you apply the slightest bit of thought. But I’ve knit past the spot – it wasn’t marked – and now need to do some unpicking.

 

Dumfries House: stashdragon wants to hear the story. One is enough.

 

A previous Lord Bute, grandfather of the present Earl, moved in arty circles and was an acquaintance – it would be presumptuous to claim him as a friend – of my husband’s. (There was a famous 18^th century Lord Bute who collected art.) He owned several W*lkies – I wonder if they’re still there – which were kept at Dumfries House. It was the dower house, where widowed countesses lived. The family house is Mount Stuart on the Isle of Bute. “Our” Lord Bute’s mother lived at Dumfries House in those days, and one day her son invited us to lunch to see the W*lkies.

 

Two things I remember. There was no one there at lunch except us. I was therefore the senior female guest and the meal began with the butler presenting me with an entire fish of some sort, to help myself from. It was a moment of absolute terror.

 

And after lunch when we were sitting about, and my husband and John Bute were talking about art, Lady Bute – who didn’t pay much attention to us – was on the telephone to someone, talking about horses. At first I thought, with some surprise, that she was talking to her bookie. Then I figured out that she was talking to her trainer.

 

“Our” Lord Bute died relatively young. His eldest son was a racing driver who preferred to go by the name of Johnny Dumfries. He it was who sold Dumfries House. The furniture was –is – rather special, made by Chippendale for the house, or something like that. It had been loaded into pantechnicons and was on its way to one of the grand auctioneers in London when Prince Charles stepped in.

 

I got around the garden this morning with Daniela – that’s five days in a row. Tomorrow is my bath day so I won’t attempt it. This morning was damp and miserable, but not particularly cold. When one is actually experiencing a not-very-severe winter, it’s hard to be too disapproving of global warming. There has been plenty of snow elsewhere, but Edinburgh has had nothing worse than a few degrees of frost, not even enough to make it slippery underfoot. There’s still plenty of time for severity, but every day like this brings us one day closer to April.

 

The difficulty with the standard lamp did indeed turn out to be the electricity supply (see yesterday). It was plugged in, but the socket wasn’t switched on. So now I’ve got light. Daniela scampered up the steps which terrified Helen yesterday and did the overhead light. That was a good thought of yours about fuses, Tamar (comment yesterday). Yes, there is one in every British plug. I know how to change them, and have often done it, but can’t remember what has caused them to need changing. In this house when a light bulb fails it almost always takes a fuse down with it, meaning that several other lights – but not electric sockets – go out too. For many years I had to call the electrician every time. Finally he put in a modern fuse box and I can now go and flip the switch myself. It happened last week, when the overhead light in the sitting room failed. I can’t remember a socket, or set of sockets, ever giving up, except when the whole street was afflicted with a power cut.

 

I did a bit of knitting, too. Time to measure again.

 

There’s a picture in the Times this morning of a knitting group at Dumfries House. The Prince of Wales – the Duke of Rothesay, actually, when he’s north of the border – is standing there looking benevolent, but not knitting. The actual knitters, at least the visible ones, are children, and not very good at it. The article doesn’t make it at all clear what is going on.

 

I’ve just searched the blog for “Dumfries House”, using the facility at the top of the right-hand sidebar, and came up with nothing. Maybe I’ve never told you about the time we had lunch there, in the days before it belonged to the Duke of Rothesay. Perhaps I’ll do that soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Limper than ever, today, but C. and I got around the garden, very slowly indeed. Helen brought me some lightbulbs on her way back from the airport – David got the Covid all-clear, at the very last minute – but she couldn’t make them work. That will have to wait for Daniela tomorrow. It would be worth making sure that that standard lamp is plugged in. We didn’t look.

 

No, their new soup maker isn’t an Instant Pot. (That’s a pressure cooker, among other things, isn’t it?)Theirs is a Morphy Richards Saute and Soup Maker, chosen at least in part because you can saute a few veggies in it as a preliminary to making soup. It doesn’t take 48 hours to make soup, or anything like. What I meant yesterday was that they were delighted with it, after having owned it for 48 hours. Helen said today that she is about to make some beetroot and apple soup which she will bring me tomorrow. I love kitchen gadgets but don’t feel I need a soup-maker. I’ve got a Nutri-Bullet which purees soup wonderfully. Maybe I could get myself a small rice-cooker.

 

So, no knitting, despite my being so close to the steeking.

 

I cautiously cut a few rocket leaves from my salad factory today, planning to add them to a little green side-salad. But once I got started I added more and more things, finishing off with some feta, and had a one-dish lunch in which the rocket leaves were indetectable.

 

 

 

Another fairly limp day, but again I got around the garden, this time with David and Helen. He has got to go back to Thessaloniki tomorrow, and was in a state of anxiety about whether he would get his Covid test result in time for the flight. Having suffered through the same anxiety with my sister recently, my guess was that it would turn up. He hopes to be back in February but is fed up with the fuss and the considerable expense involved in all the required testing.

 

Several shrubs are blooming in the garden, as well as the snowdrops and aconites I mentioned yesterday, but I don’t know their names. It behoves me to find out.

 

David and Helen have bought a soup-making machine with which (after 48 hours) they are delighted. They brought me some soup, which I will have soon for my supper.

 

I didn’t get as much knitting done as hoped. The overhead light in the sitting room has now died too so I have had to move entirely into the kitchen. The light is good there, and it’s warm. I hope to do at least one further round this evening.

 

Again, not too bad a day. I felt very stiff and slow – my left hip has not been all it might be for several years now, and it has been having a particularly bad day today. But C. and I hobbled successfully all the way around the garden. The snowdrops and aconites are blooming.

 

And I have moved the knitting forward. I measured it properly this evening, on the kitchen table: I have only a centimetre to go before the chosen spot for the underarm steeks. That’s three rounds, four at the worst; I ought to be able to get there tomorrow.

 

And I may have discovered, at least in part, why I have such a poor record of late, knitting in the evening. Namely, that I need a new high-wattage bulb in the standard lamp. I’ve known that for some time, but today I actually knit a round after dark, and grasped that something must be done.

 

A nice man rang up and tried to book me in for a colonoscopy. Again I declined.

 

Drink: I’ve got a Dry January app on my iPad. Every evening I get to paste an electronic sticker on an electronic calendar indicating a dry day. (After this coming weekend, they’ll begin to stack up.) I take a childish pleasure in this ritual. Today I looked back to the beginning of last year, and was surprised to see that I managed four-days-off, three-days-on without a lapse all through February. It was only in March that things began to fall apart; by April all was lost. So maybe it would be worth trying that again.

 

 

 

It has been a fairly successful day, but goodness! I’m tired of the dark. It was a tad warmer than yesterday, although grey and raw. Daniela and I got once around the garden.

 

I then addressed the questions clustering around the Calcutta Cup shawl. It wasn’t too difficult. C. has measured the actual boy, and also a sweater that fits him well. The length she recommends – allowing for future growth, but stopping well above his knees at present – is the length of the third size of Mary Lou’s Rylan vest, so I might as well run with the sleeve-hole placement on that. It gives me a couple more inches to knit before I insert the armhole steeks. I did a bit.

 

I once did a class with a famous knitter whose name I can’t remember, on Designing for Children. The one piece of information I have retained chimes with the advice several of you have given me: namely that children lengthen much more than they widen as the years pass.

 

I looked at Arne and Carlos, and tried to incorporate the Norwegian way of holding the left-hand yarn, at least. So simple… But I found that it took too much concentration, and I still need all of that I can muster for the Fair Isle pattern.

 

Current Affairs: I am sure Ghislaine Maxell and Prince Andrew and the whole lot of them are unpleasant people, but I am not sure that she deserves life imprisonment. The “victims” in the case largely seem to be healthy women, some, at least, with husbands and children, who have made themselves a heap of money out of this sad business already. Whereas Mrs Sakoolas, whose victim is dead, is walking around free as a bird.

 

It has been cold again. Daniela administered my weekly bath and hair-wash; I wasn’t tempted to go out. I suspect it would not be easy, especially just now, to get such care in a care home.

 

I resumed knitting. I’ve now done 8” of Calcutta Cup vest. Mary Lou has sent me the pattern for her soon-to-be-published Rylan vest, a very nice little number for a toddler and on up. That pattern says 8” to the underarm for the 18-month size, 8 ½ for the next one up. (Hamish will be 2 in May.) Meanwhile C. has sent me measurements in centimetres just now, from a sweater the boy actually wears. I’ll apply myself tomorrow. I’ll also look at Meg’s Fair Isle vest pattern to see the proportion of the sections of sweater above and below the underarm. It all involves too much thinking for this hour of the night.  

 

Here's a picture of my salad factory, exactly two weeks after kick-off:

I took it in the morning before the eerie light went on. 

 

Taxes: We’ve just had a startling preliminary bill from the new accountant.

 

Jeanfromcornwall, I do agree about the advantages of comparative poverty. Last year I filled out a form on an HMRC website that Alexander referred me to, and it said I didn’t need to file a return or pay any more tax. So I didn’t. Do I believe it? The tax man knows where I am, and hasn’t sent me any letters the way he used to when my husband was alive. But it will still be a comfort to have it all done professionally at least once.

 

Kirsten, congratulations on getting yours done for Christmas. And I was sorry to hear about your cat. Perdita had a bad fall once when she was a young and slender cat. She fell from a high shelf in the kitchen. She was still limping a couple of days later, and protesting in pain when her hip was touched, so I took her to the vet, like you. She was anaesthetised and x-rayed and was found to be fine. She came home that evening very cross, and I rather poorer. Now that she’s a stout, middle-aged, sterilized cat she doesn’t climb the way she used to.

 

Marion, thank you for the Arne&Carlos link. I’ll address that tomorrow, too. I found one at least that showed me how Arne holds a single yarn in his left hand. It looks so simple….

 

If the point of all this abstinence is rejuvenation, I can only say that it’s not working yet. Helen came over this morning to help with the Income Tax. She is heroically taking that dreadful burden on her own shoulders. We have hired an accountant, but at this stage that hardly helps. She (the accountant) just demands papers and numbers like HMRC. We didn’t do much, but by the time we gave up, I was prostrate. Helen is a hard taskmaster, so out we went, but I could do no more than get across to the garden and sit for a while. It’s turned cold, which in itself has rather a debilitating effect.

 

And that was about it, for today. No knitting.

 

The knitting went better today, but I still haven’t recovered the pleasure and ease with which I used to knit Fair Isle. Here it is, slightly blurry:

 

I’d better measure tomorrow and make a tentative decision, at least, about when I want to start the armholes.

 

I still found it difficult today. I couldn’t let my thoughts wander at all – which is the whole point of knitting – or I’d find that I was confused about whether I was in the expanding or the contracting diamond. But I think it was getting slightly better in that respect before I stopped.

 

I wish I had mastered a better technique when I was young enough to do so. Somewhere Arne and Carlos have a video that shows clearly how they do it. I remember that it’s important to keep the left forefinger down low. (Mine isn’t) I’d like to find it and look again but don’t know how to start hunting. I just find myself in a wilderness of Christmas ornaments.

 

The salad machine continues well. Soon I’ll be able to start tasting. Everything salad-y I get from the supermarket this time of year must have been grown under cover and probably under eerie blue lights. I am fully persuaded that everything tastes better if grown in the open air under God’s own sunshine.

 

Shandy, no, I’ve been drinking my usual ration of cider since I got back from the hospital. The NHS and my sister disapprove, and I think my children mutter behind my back. The hospital sent me an Alcohol Counsellor who virtually said that if she was as well as I was at my age, she’d go on drinking too. She said there’s lots of Alcohol Counselling to do at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, and they had just taken on an extra member of staff. Drugs must complicate the issue nowadays. My difficulty is that I don’t think I can cut down – I’d have to cut it out altogether like your youthful mother, Shandy, or like my son James. He stopped drinking beer because he found that he always wanted one more than he was allowed. He’s taken in his belt a couple of notches and looks extremely well.

 

After my perfect January last year, I got most of the way through February on four-days-off, three-days-on but couldn’t keep it up. Or, at any rate, didn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Briefly, this evening:

 

I didn’t feel well this morning, and so didn’t walk. That was a shame, as it was a nice day. It’s beginning to sound stormy out there now.

 

I knit on, but not very far. My fingers aren’t doing as well as I boasted yesterday, but I hope they’ll get the hang of it soon. The pattern is an easy one: I think that makes it harder. A picture wouldn’t hurt, to get us all back in the saddle. Tomorrow.

 

Crochet66 (comment yesterday) – yes, indeedy! Measure the boy! I have emailed C. with a note of the measurements I want. She looks after him a day or two a week, while Mummy works, so that should be perfectly feasible. Other suggestions yesterday were helpful too, and will be taken into consideration.

 

My salad machine continues to make rapid strides. I think it will be a fortnight on Wednesday since I launched it. I’ll take a picture of it then.

 

The hardest part of Dry January is now behind me. Henceforth it’s just a matter of the long slog.

 

It has been a pretty good start to the year. The day was warm and sunny. Helen came and we got around the garden. I got re-started on the Calcutta Cup vest – not much actual knitting was done, but a little, and I’ve got the rhythm of it back in my fingers. The next thing is to decide how long I want it to be to the underarms. I don’t have a pattern. You’re absolutely right, Tamar, that it’s length a two-year-old requires. Does anyone have a suggestion? He’ll be two in May and is a well-grown boy. The Calcutta Cup for ’22 will be contested in February. I don’t want it to be ridiculously long. That will be its big day.

 

I watched an interesting video about Mary Lou’s herb-grower, called an AeroGarden. It’s a hydroponic system, meaning no soil at all. No wonder fertilizer is required. Whereas the “lingots” in my Veritable system presumably supply nourishment, although I think the roots are going to grow down through them into the reservoir below. My little plants are growing faster than they would in nature, but the AeroGarden ones are apparently faster yet. Is it due in both cases to that eerie blue light? All great fun.

 

Facebook has relented and has resumed notifying me most mornings when Franklin has posted.

 

 

So much for 2021. I don’t think any of us will be sorry to see it go.

 

I looked up your AeroGarden, Mary Lou. Thank you. It’s very similar to my salad factory. And ads for similar machines have started popping up amongst my Promotions. It must be an idea whose time has arrived. I like your idea of re-using seed pads, choosing seeds ad lib. You’d have to add fertiliser of some sort in the water, presumably? Here’s mine, today:

 

 

The seeds are stuck in little holes in the so-called lingots by some magic glue. In the third from the right (or second from the left, if you prefer) the seeds have somehow come loose from two of the little holes. Maybe they will turn out to be around somewhere, and come up anyway. Maybe three plants will be enough to fill the space – I think that’s probably one of the lettuces. Otherwise 100% germination. And I think you can see, if you peer, that true leaves are beginning to show. It remains great fun.

 

Helen and David and their son Mungo (the Arabist) came to lunch today. Mungo cooked. It was pleasant to sit talking.

 

I’m planning a Dry January, like last year. I’m hoping for rejuvenation, but not expecting any. It was sometime in the middle of Dry January this year, which I kept very faithfully, that I started using a stick to walk about indoors. Now I can scarcely get across the room without it. I like the way the calendar counts the days with me. You don’t get that in Lent.

 

No knitting. I’ve located all the yarns for the Calcutta Cup vest, though, and it’s absolutely top of my resolutions for next year. Or perhaps that's walking, the Calcutta Cup vest second. I didn't go out yesterday or today, although the weather was perfectly possible.

 

 

 

 

 

All well, more or less. C. and I got to the garden this morning, but it was raining briskly and therefore muddy and slippy underfoot so we came back again. At least we tried. Helen and her family are still in Strathardle, where they are not only wet but very cold. The deer have been at our trees.

 

It’s time to resume wee Hamish’s Calcutta Cup vest. I’ve retrieved the knitting, most but not yet all of the colours, the book, the stitch pattern. The body of the Machu Picchu is now 12” long, which may or my not be enough, but it’s time to lay it aside.

 

Mary Lou, please tell me about your herb-growing machine, or anyway tell me its name and I’ll look it up. You must be freer than I am – I can only use “lingots” already supplied with seeds and organic fertilizer. There are 50 or so different varieties available, which should keep me going for a while. I didn’t fancy the ones supplied with the machine – parsley, chives, thyme, rocket – too tame; I’ve got thyme and chives on the doorstep. So I also ordered another set – two lettuces, basil, and something else. But they can be purchased separately from the Veritable website, and I’ll do that next time. Chillies, coriander, salad leaves, as I've already mentioned.

 

We’re getting on fine. Picture soon.

 

I had to look “Let’s Go Brandon” up on Google to see how it could be an insult to Biden. I was disappointed. I had expected wit.

 

I’ve always liked Boxing Day, my fave, perhaps, of the 365. It doesn’t have a name in the US – or didn’t, at least, in the household in which I grew up. After the stress of the last few weeks, it brings with it a delicious sense of ease, of job-done. There’s always plenty of food left over from yesterday. The year is on the turn – there’s a sense of looking-forward. Little of that applies to me nowadays, but I’m still fond of it. We had a family quiz on zoom this morning.

 

The big news, however, is that there are little green leaves in my salad machine. The first set appeared yesterday, a wonderful Christmas present. Two more have joined it. That leaves one of the four bars still inert – but it hasn’t even been a week yet. My guess is that that’s the basil. I didn’t keep track of what went where, probably a mistake.

 

Monday the 27^th

 

I wrote that much last night, but didn’t get as far as posting it.

 

No advance on the salad machine. The little green leaves which were already with us are moving boldly forward, but haven’t been joined by that fourth bar – although I think I can see that the seeds are sttrring. I’m planning the next lot, in six months’ time: chillis, cilantro (coriander), salad leaves. The problem then will be to give them eight hours of darkness. It’ll be May if not June by then, and that’s more darkness than we get in those delicious months. I’ve got a couple of walk-in cupboards: but they lack electric points. I think they’ll have to stay in the sitting room – where I much enjoy having them to hand – with the curtains drawn in a most un-May-like fashion.

 

C. came this morning, and we got as far as walking across to the garden and sitting for a while on a damp bench. She’s coming again on Wednesday, and we’ll hope for better. On Christmas Day, cheerful and sunny, I didn’t get out of the door with Helen and her family. They’re now in Strathardle, too cold to move.

 

I watched the Fruity Knitting episode with the second half of their Kaffe Fassett interview. He has been awfully successful in finding his niche and exploiting it. 

 

 

 

 

 

Here I still am, I’m afraid.

 

I was overtaken by something that felt like panic, and didn’t want to leave the familiar and the cats. I’ll be fine tomorrow by myself. I think Helen and David are coming to walk around the garden with me. They’ll ring the doorbell and stand well back. They’re also well-tested and clear. This damn disease is clearly getting out of hand. Rachel has got it, -- at any rate, has tested positive. She was planning to come up after Christmas with some family, to stay a couple of days at Loch Fyne and then come here overnight. But that’s off. She says her son Joe is much better. That’s something.

 

Loch Fyne: I signed up for Kate Davies’ new club yesterday. It’s called “The Secret Shore of Argyll” or something very like that. I was surprised to see that signing-up had started early in December. How had I missed it? The answer is, I hadn’t missed it. Yesterday’s membership was my second. I heard from Melanie this morning. I apologised, and have already got the refund. This is a worrying memory lapse. There were several reasons that that should have been memorable, including the fact that Loch Fyne is in Argyll, not far from the coast. (It is a sea loch.)

 

I’m having a wonderful time with my salad-maker. Here is a picture of it. 

The lights go off for eight hours out of the 24. It is watered by means of wicks drawing from a reservoir at the bottom. The lights will flash gently when I need to refill it, every fortnight or so. The photographs and instructional drawings show the lights at different heights. I am told that that will happen automatically. My first contribution (other than watering) will be to harvest/subdue the plants when they threaten to get too big.

That's not a real radiator (which would be ill-advised). It's an oil-filled plug-in thing, enormously heavy, which we inherited with the house. We managed to get rid of one or two. We have even, occasionally, in hard winters, plugged it in.

 

So now all I can do is to wait for Heaven’s contribution – the appearance of the little green plants.

 

 

 

Now the overhead light has gone in the room where I sit. I’ll have to move the computer – it’s a laptop – elsewhere until I can get Archie in with a new bulb. It’s possible to write by the light of the screen, but not pleasant.

 

My Christmas toy came. It’s a salad-growing machine. I set it up this morning and took some pictures of it for you but can’t figure out how to get them over here. I think the iPad (where the pictures are) has updated its software recently. So that, too, will have to wait for the visit of a grown-up. I have planted it with two kinds of lettuce, basil, and rocket (arugula). It is absurdly more expensive than buying those things in a supermarket, but I hope more fun. Its name is Veritable, if you want to look it up. It’s French. But avert your eyes from the price. Better than buying more yarn and not knitting it, I suppose.

 

And Tesco delivered still more food. The slot was 8-9 p.m.and they came at five past 8, so I got to bed in good time. Even Daniella is beginning to laugh at me for the quantities of food. I’ll take some smoked salmon to Loch Fyne and maybe can find a couple of other suitable things for them.

 

Tomorrow will have to be spent packing and resisting the temptation to skip the whole thing and crawl under the duvet with a cat. I’ve got to administer a Covid test to myself as well, and am nervous about that. About the discomfort, and about doing it right.

 

Thank you for all your Christmas greetings, The same to you, with knobs on. I suppose I’d better pack in blogging until some time next week. See you then, insh’Allah.