Well, it looks as if Biden won. It’s been a long, hard week. Now we wait with interest to see what happens in the White House in the next two months.

 

Did any of you see a little clip – better yet, did you see it in context? – which the BBC had up for a while, during the confirmation hearings for the new Supreme Court justice?  Kamala Harris asked her (a) did she think that the coronavirus was infectious? (b) that smoking caused lung cancer? (c) what about climate change? Barratt was visibly puzzled, but answered as I would have: (a) yes (b) yes (c) that needs qualification. The episode left me less keen on Harris than I had previously been. Still, with any luck at all, Biden will survive his term. And at least they are both women, so nobody can complain about mansplaining.

 

My main achievement today was to finish reading The Searcher. Helen and I went for an early walk.

 

Franklin has posted a second vlog – this one about swatching. He has repented of an earlier pronouncement – in the Panopticon? – that swatches lie. He may have repented, but it’s true.

 

And I’ve knit a bit further forward on the Evandoon. Not as much as I should have.

 

Now for some Italian homework.

 

Andrew and Andrea have posted a Fruity Knitting session, patrons-only, with an update on Andrew’s health. It is difficult to watch dry-eyed. His symptoms are all slightly worse, and he has lost all appetite. His tumour is inoperable (we knew that). He is having some interesting-sounding radiotherapy. He is in no pain.  He is worried about what will happen if things get to a point where Andrea and their daughter Madeleine can’t take care of him. Do they have hospices in Germany?

 

I have just had an interesting explosion sound in the kitchen. Paradox shot out of the room in alarm. Was it outside the window? If in the room – the Aga is electric, and might have suddenly given up the ghost – why didn’t a fuse blow? We have very sensitive fuses in this house. Time will tell.

 

Nothing more to say about the election. We wait.

 

A day of largely non-achievement. I didn’t go out and walk. That was naughty. Tana French’ new book “The Searcher” turned up. I’m sure I would have read it sooner or later – probably sooner – but having it at the very instant of publication is due to you, Mary Lou, and I am grateful. I am enjoying it. It starts slowly, and accelerates.

 

And I have progressed with the Evandoon. Current stripe nearly finished.

 

Last night’s dip into my past was to the end of ’06. What a lot of achievement! Jean(fromcornwall) I was comforted by your message yesterday, and remember fondly our meeting in London. That year ended with my posting here everything I had knit in the year, the way I used to do to the Knitlist. In the good old days, I was conscientious about putting pattern and twist of yarn and, eventually, photograph, in a file. But when electronics took over, things sort of fell apart. What does it matter anyway?

 

I have just grasped that it is the 5^th of November, That almost certainly explains my explosion. The Aga is probably all right.

 

The only people to emerge from this sorry mess with any credit are Peggy and I, who said out loud in public last week that we had no confidence whatsoever in polls. At the moment (just after 5 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time, Wednesday November 4^th) the BBC is saying that Biden probably won. For what that’s worth.

 

However, I got a fair amount of knitting done. I have abandoned the sleeve stitches and am now progressing peacefully down the body of the Evandoon. Five more broad stripes needed, including the one I’ve just embarked on. Unless I decide to lengthen it a bit. I suspect I’ve got plenty of yarn.

 

I’ve seen Franklin’s new vlog. It’s very good. He has the gift of talking to a camera as if he can see you and me through the lens. It’s not very long, this first episode. He talked somewhat about how this peculiar year has produced in him a need for mindless knitting which he claims not to have felt before, even when sitting with his dying mother. What he means by “mindless knitting” wouldn’t do for me. He showed us a fine scarf in, I think, linen stitch. For me, the present state of the Evandoon will serve as such for quite a while. Truly mindless, except for attaching the next stripe.

But, oh! I miss the Panopticon!

 

Thank you for your help with knitting notebooks, reminding me of my own failures in the past. I spent many a happy hour cataloguing my knitting books in Library Thing, until I stopped doing it. I can’t remember my password, now. Likewise, I once entered all my stash in Ravelry. One thing I do maintain is an electronic Filofax – Lotus Organizer. I copy the year’s FO’s into it from the sidebar here, at the end of each year, and list the knitting I intend to do in the year to come. Beverly, I’ll have a look at Planner Porn. And Anonymous, you’re right, this blog serves me as a sort of diary.

I can never buy a new computer -- it probably wouldn't load Organizer, even if I could find the disk.

 

Sometimes, at night, when Italian cookery on YouTube palls, I look back at this blog. The other night I clicked on 2009 – the click plunged me into this end of the year, and I was stunned at my energy: Christmas shopping on foot, Christmas-card-writing, cooking breakfast, lunch, tea and supper (that wasn’t mentioned, but can be assumed) – and getting quite a bit more knitting done than I seem to manage nowadays. Only 10 years ago. Eleven.

 

A long, long day.

 

Archie came over, and we got some things done, including hobbling around the garden. One of the plusses of having him here is that I eat better, because of cooking for him. We had fresh tuna today. On Saturday he and his brother Mungo are coming, not for chores but so that Mungo can cook for me. Sweet of them.

 

No knitting – I really must start knitting in the evening again. Thank you for your kind comments about the Evandoon. I claim no credit for the colours. That’s the way Kate Davies wrote the pattern, and indeed planned the yarn. I bought it in order to be cheered up in November.

 

Joe and Becca have sent a lovely picture of themselves and their baby, represented for now by a photograph of the scan. I can’t figure out how to get the picture out of my telephone. I’ll show it to you when I succeed. Ron, I like the idea of knitting for the baby in red. No colour is more invigorating. It is the Hindu colour for joy, worn by brides.

 

I haven’t finished today’s quota of “Maestro-Don Gesualdo” – and the missing bit that I haven't done is listening to today's chapter in Italian. That’s good for knitting. Maybe things are converging.

 

One of the things I tend to do in November is spend money foolishly. This time I am tempted by one of those notebook-diaries in which you can organise your life and especially your knitting. Kate Davies offers a rather tempting-looking one. Does anybody have any experience of such things? Does one keep up with it? Does it help hold life at bay?

Alexander just rang up, and raised the question of the King's College Choir. What about "Once in Royal David's City" (and the rest of the concert) on Christmas Eve? My guess is that they'll manage to do it, somehow. The world really does begin to totter on its foundations, if one can even contemplate cancelling Royal David's City.

Fete des Morts

 

Well, here we are. Here we may well still be, in 48 hours. At least we’ll know a bit more by then. Who would have thought it possible, a year ago on All Souls day, that the British press would have something else to talk about, so compelling as to push the American election well into second place? Short of the death of the Queen – that, mercifully, we are so far spared. The news is all about the new lockdown: everybody is gloomier now; and we suspect, with reason, that those supposedly in charge don’t know nothin’ from nothin’.

 

And as for the election, Peggy, I absolutely agree with you (comment, Friday), about never trusting polls again after 2016. At least the Democrats haven’t planned (in my hearing) an absurd party.

 

I got on fine with the Evandoon today. I’m now ready to leave the sleeve stitches behind. The measurement from beginning to where-I-am is exactly what the pattern suggests, so I will proceed without the tedium of trying it on. And, hell, it’ll fit somebody. I’m only here for the crisp spirit-lifting colours:

 

And I also got on fine with Maestro-Don Gesualdo: all three versions of Chapter 3.

 

The club pattern last week was a hat – a tempting possibility, if I have yarn left over. And Kate Davies’ weekend essay was about kaleidoscopes, and their relation to hat design. Interesting indeed.

 

Thank you for your help with choosing colours for Joe and Becca’s baby’s hap. Scotland rugby blue it shall probably be. Will that be too dark for solstice knitting? But I won’t have to start until January. I gave some thought to the matter today, on my own, and looked at Kate Davies’ hap book, and even toyed briefly with the idea of knitting that dear old Paton’s pattern by “Mrs Hunter of Unst” again. That’s the one I knit for Rachel, before she was born, in all six parts as specified in the pattern (centre, four borders, edging, then you sew them all together); and at least once since, in one piece. But I don’t feel up to it, and there’s nothing more comforting than a good old jumper-weight hap. Sharon Miller has published a slim vol on the subject of haps, with lots of colour-ways illustrated. I’ll have a look at that.

 

Grand news to launch my least favourite month: Grandson Joe rang up today to say that he and his wife Becca are expecting a baby in May. The first scan has been successfully negotiated. They are the ones who were married on the Isle of Wight last summer.

 

So: another Shetland hap, I think. What about colour? My first thought was Scotland rugby blue, in some combination. Joe works for English rugby at Twickenham, but loyally cheers for Scotland in all matches in which England isn’t involved. But what if it’s a girl? Might blue make her feel unwanted? Joe’s parents, Rachel and Ed, have four grandchildren, all girls. More importantly, two of them are the daughters of Joe’s elder brother Thomas: so it’s up to Joe to carry on the family name. A daughter, if one arrives, will be wildly loved, as are the previous four, but still…So I’m working on that one.

 

I think my cold has gone away, at least for the moment. Last night I was sneezing vigorously, and my eyes felt warm. I hope you’re better, Kirsten. I tried to answer your comment last night, so much appreciated, but as with many of us, I couldn’t do it, so I stuck a message on the end of the blog itself, but you may not have seen it.

 

The Evandoon has progressed well. My current instruction is 8 or 9 rounds on which I increase on the body sections only. I’m about halfway through that.  I’m afraid I didn’t take a picture. I’ve moved to a longer needle,  but will be glad to abandon the sleeve stitches and return to the original one.

 

And I’ve done Chapter Two of Maestro-Don Gesualdo in all three formats. Not a bad day!

 

I think maybe I’m coming down with a cold. The symptoms don’t match Covid but one is bound to feel a bit anxious. And how did I get it? Not being careful enough?

 

We’ve had a wet and stormy day. I didn’t go out. And we’ve moved on to a stormy evening.

 

Mary Lou, an apple, of course, for the Bloody Ploughman. I think David and Helen were going back to Abbotsford today, because there was much there to interest the boys. I told them to make sure not to skip the garden. David leaves tomorrow.

 

England is about to go into lockdown again, except for education. Mrs Sturgeon is telling us not to go to England. Things are marginally better here, very marginally, but I suspect she will have to follow Boris’ lead for once. Lisa, you’re absolutely right (comment yesterday) that we knitters are lucky to be able to hunker down with our yarn and our patterns and our thoughts. As for flu, I’ve had my injection and Helen is working on it – she’s not quite old enough to qualify, and there was a great rush on the vaccine when it first became available.

 

The knitting has advanced. One more round of the current instruction, then 8 for the next one. Then the next instruction after that is to try it on. We’ll see. I think maybe I’ll try measuring as-is, and only take that radical step if the measurement is way out. The question is, is the body long enough? Because the next instruction is to leave the sleeve stitches behind and knit peacefully on down to the bottom. I think I'd better take a picture tomorrow, however unsatisfactory.

 

I had a good Italian lesson this morning, except that I can’t find my textbook. I have set myself to read Verga’s Maestro-Don Gesualdo. It’s not terribly long. I’ve got it in Italian, in audible form (which I bought by mistake), and in translation, which was the most expensive of the three. The idea at the moment is to take it chapter by chapter in each of those three forms, in that order. We’ll see how long I can keep it up. I’ve done Chapter One. Cranford temporarily abandoned.

Kirsten, I can’t leave a reply to your comment (today) so I’ll do it this way. Your cold is a comfort to me, on this dark and stormy evening. Maybe neither of us has Covid-19. Maybe everything will be all right.

 

 

 

“Bloody Ploughman”, Mary Lou?  I’m completely baffled.

 

Very weak today. No knitting. I had a nice Zoom with my sister and her husband in DC, much concerned with the election, of course; confident that Biden will win. They are cheerfully resigned to celebrating both Thanksgiving and Christmas virtually with their son (their only child) and his family. I still cling to some hope for Christmas. I regard myself as occupying a “bubble” with Greek Helen and her family. (It sounds as if you don’t have “bubbles” so much in America.) Although there are grounds for concern: Fergus is a student (Bristol) and Mungo is working in London and David, if he gets there, will have flown back from Thessaloniki only the day before. I might be wiser to spend the day alone.

But if that happens, I would prefer to be completely alone. No Zooming, that day.

 

There’s time for knitting tonight, and there’s also Italian homework to do. But I think I’ll just go to bed.

 

Reading

 

You are doing well to have a pile of books waiting and murmuring, Kirsten. I am living from hand-to-mouth, and we all need comfort.  But I’m enjoying “Cranford”. I spoke to Rachel today – she says she won a prize when she was in the Sixth Form, and my husband advised her to choose Cranford. She’s still got it, of course, suitably inscribed, but has never read it. I think she’d enjoy it a lot. But how did my husband know about it? He wasn’t much of a novel-reader, except for our bedtime books; and I’m sure we never did Cranford.

 

We had a grand day at Abbotsford. Pleasant, sunny weather, despite the blowy rain confidently forecast. The house – at least, the area open to the public – isn’t terribly big, but stuffed with interesting things that Scott collected. He went to the battlefield of Waterloo, for instance, while the Belgian government were still selling souvenirs, and profited. It’s been greatly tourist-ified since I was last there, but not unsuccessfully. The staff were cheerful, knowledgeable, helpful. We had lunch in the café – delicious, fresh food. We spent so much time in the house that we never got to the garden: a loss. Helen and David might go back at the weekend, with one or more of their sons.

 

I was horrified, however, (1) at how the world looks, with everybody masked; and (2) with how weak I am, compared to my last outings, which would be my Shetland Wool Adventure and Joe and Becca’s wedding, in the spring and early summer of 2019. I was scarcely superman then, and wheelchairs were involved both on Shetland and on the rail journey home from the wedding. But I am much weaker now.

David is going back to Thessaloniki (where he works) at the weekend. He is afraid he won't be allowed home for Christmas.

 

Knitting has progressed. I am about to start the fifth broad stipe, in the middle of which one instruction ends and the next begins. I’ll have to face up to a stitch count soon. The difficulty with attempting a picture is that we started off without ribbing – that will be added later – with the result that the cast-on edge curls over the work, obscuring all of the first stripe and encroaching on the second.

 

“Scandinavian Sweaters” turned up today. It’s a book of patterns by a Norwegian designer, and very good indeed. That’s the one Meg says she added to her book-list sight unseen.

 

Reading

 

I finished “The Rector’s Daughter” – very interesting. The author was born in 1872. The novel is set somewhere in the first half of the 20^th century – presumably between the wars, although at the moment I can’t think of a specific indicator. And it’s as if she and Trollope met and collided the way two seas do in a few places in the world – off the Cape of Good Hope, I think, for one. That is, his world is still there, gentlefolk supported by loyal servants; but the 20^th century is very much there, too.

 

I’ve moved on to Mrs Gaskell’s “Cranford” which I feel sure I haven’t read – but I keep saying that, when it couldn’t be true. It’s gentle and pleasant, so far. I think I was expecting Victorian excitement.

 

Helen and David are proposing to take me to Abbotsford tomorrow (so if I’m not here, that’s where I am). It’s Sir Walter Scott’s house, in the borders somewhere. I’ve been there a couple of times. Amongst the perks of old age – there are a few! – I won’t have to navigate, still less drive.

 

Archie was here today. We got a few things done, and had a nourishing and healthful lunch which I probably wouldn’t have bothered with but for his presence.

 

And I made progress with the Evandoon. I’ve finished that rhubarb-coloured stripe, and the narrow white one after it, and wound the next skein. I had thought that the current instruction – increase 8 sts every other round – ended somewhere in the middle of the next broad stripe; but no, it’s in the middle of the one after that. On we go.

 

Comments

 

Helen (anon): The secret of getting ahead with Christmas decorations (as you must have suspected) is to leave them up from last year. There are three doorknobs in my sitting room: one to the hall, one to the bedroom, and one to the stash cupboard. Each is currently hung with several project bags. Things could be simplified – some of the bags could be amalgamated. Maybe next week.

 

I had the computer on this morning, and left it open. When I came back just now I found that somebody – and it could only be Perdita – had changed the screen resolution, so that everything was awkwardly stretched out. I’ve dealt with this before, and finally succeeded in doing so again, but it’s tiresome. Getting rid of the Greek alphabet is easier.

 

Today I’m making kimchi. All is done except the final rinsing of the cabbage, when it has been salted enough, and the final amalgamation. That should give me enough to last for much of the winter, like a good Korean housewife.

 

Helen’s husband David is here for a week, home from Thessaloniki where he works. We won’t see him again until Christmas. He joined us for the trudge around the garden this morning.

 

British-based readers will know of the efficient naval landing last night on an oil tanker which was being taken over by stowaways. The rescuers descended by rope from helicopters.

 

The best funeral oration I’ve ever heard – fortunately, not all that many – was for a naval friend of ours, the speaker a naval friend of his. It was good because it recalled Duncan’s faults which we all loved as much as his virtues. The two of them had once (at least) rehearsed just such an operation. It is particularly nerve-wracking, the speaker told us, because in the middle of the night you don’t know what – if anything – will be under your feet when you get to the bottom: “And Duncan talked, all the way down.”

 

The Evandoon (or whatever it’s called) has progressed, although not, so far, beyond the lovely red stripe mentioned yesterday. The rounds are getting longer at the rate of eight stitches every other round. Eventually the sleeve stitches will be left behind and things will speed up. I tidied up a bit this morning and put Machu Picchu and the Striped Shetland away in project bags. The sitting room has project bags hanging from every door knob.

 

This day is called the feast of Crispian…

 

It was on St Crispin’s Day, in 1952, that my friend Sylvia’s academic family invited me to join them in England the following summer. A third friend, Ann, was to be there too. We are three old ladies now, all widowed, still in touch. And St Crispin has sort of followed us around. Olivier’s movie was all the rage, in 1952. At the end of the summer of ’53, after the others had gone home, I came to Edinburgh for a glorious week of Festival. I saw “Henry V” in a church somewhere during that week, I think it was the one right here, on the roundabout where London Road joins Broughton Street. And there was once when we were middle-aged when Ann and Sylvia came to see me in Birmingham, and my husband was away and so didn’t need to be cooked for, and we had a day out, We went to Chatsworth and on to Stratford where we happened upon a matinee of Kenneth Branagh’s memorable “Henry V”. I think it was his first big break.

 

I am delighted to think that I might accidentally have inspired anyone to take a closer look at Ingres. I love him. This is the picture that hangs above the table where I sit to compose:

 

Blurry, because taken in darkness, and of course just a print, not a drawing from the master’s own hand. Although there are those who believe that Ingres himself had a hand in making the plate. Whatever, I love those four people.

 

This is our first day of winter darkness (i.e., the clocks went back last night). I am feeling fairly gloomy. It was easier to be brave about Covid-19 in the springtime. C. came to accompany my walk this morning – the first time I’ve seen her in quite a while. She’s exhausted by her nursing duties, and is going back to them tonight. She thinks Christina (Hamish’s mother, whose neck is broken) will need attendance into the new year. She is to have another x-ray this week.

 

The Evandoon continues to progress well. I am currently nearly finished with a broad stripe of the most beautiful, gentle red.

 

I’ve knit furiously on with the Evandoon. I don’t dare stop for even a moment, among all these instructions, or I’ll forget where I’m meant to be.

 4

The first problem has been successfully negotiated. At the beginning, one knits back and forth. Then, at a certain point, one breaks the yarn, slides a specified number of stitches from left needle to right, and starts again at the new beginning-of-round. The problem was that the pattern says that this will be the point where the right sleeve is attached to the back. And as far as I can see, and making due allowance for the fact that I am knitting upside down, it’s the left sleeve.

 

I could be wrong. And in any event, the count was right and I’m moving forward. I love the yarn, And, mercifully, it’s very visible – easy to see how many rows I’ve done in a 10-row stripe; easy to see whether or not the last round was an increase round.

 

Allison, it was brilliant of you to find the picture I was talking about, and to provide a link. (Comment, yesterday – do look.) How beautiful are those curtains! No wonder I wanted to knit it. I am sure you’re right, that if I had examined that smoke from Vesuvius a bit more carefully, and used a gentle grey instead of white to represent it, all would have been well. It’s tempting to try again, so beautiful are those curtains.

 

Mary Lou, I like your Muriel pattern a lot (Ravelry link). Surely one could pick it up and turn it around and knit it bottom-up as I am doing with Carol Sunday’s Machu Picchu? Or, was doing, before darkness set in. I wish we hadn’t been deprived of that Arne&Carlos episode in which Arne explains what’s wrong with upside-down stitches. It was more than a matter of convenience or even aesthetics.

 

Life

 

I’ve moved on to F.M. Mayor’s “The Rector’s Daughter”. I strongly suspect I’ve read it before, many years ago. I’m enjoying it as if new.

 

“Is He Popenjoy?” seems to have as a theme the idea that second-best may be good enough, as far as choosing a life-partner goes; what matters more is life. I have never noticed Trollope having themes before.

 

I’ve cast on the Evendoon. (Is that what it’s called?) Kate Davies’ Schiehallion yarn  is splendid. She describes it as a “DK, or heavy sportweight”. That seems about right. Certainly heavier than the Shetland jumper-weight I’ve been involved with recently. It produces a beautiful, smooth fabric and is lovely in the hands.

 

Elaine wrote to ask whether it smells sheepy. Alas, I can’t answer. I’ve lost the sense of smell. Don’t recoil in horror – this happened a couple of years ago, at least, and can be given some sort of date by the fact that I couldn’t smell a thing when Archie and I visited the fish market in Catania in late ’18. I know the sheepy smell Elaine means, and I love it – but it causes her discomfort. I suspect the answer is no, no smell, but someone else will have to testify.

 

The Evendoon s top-down, and that means there are a lot of things to do, right at the beginning. I am feeling rather inadequate, but all is going well so far, I think. One has to maintain the stripe sequence while carrying out the other instructions, but goodness, I ought to be able to manage that. I don’t understand the next thing I have to do, a few rows ahead, but maybe it will be clear when I get there, and if not, there’s the Ravelry group, where lots of people have tackled it already.

 

One thing worries slightly: the neck ribbing isn’t done until the very end, and the written instruction for which colour to use for it is clearly wrong, judging from the pictures. (Mercifully, my printer has produced a perfect copy.) Are there other mistakes?

 

Thank you very much for your rant, Chloe. (Comments, yesterday) I think you may be on to something, in your idea that autumnal colours – which indeed I favour – are less congenial to white.

 

A feeble day, although I got around the garden with Helen. I cancelled my Italian lesson again. I resolve to do better.

 

I didn’t watch the debate last night, after all. I got up at 2:20 a.m., put on my spectacles, started to struggle with the sleeves of my bathrobe – and then decided to go back to bed. It doesn’t sound nearly as entertaining as the first one. I’m glad I saw that.

 

I’ve nearly finished my Trollope: “Is he Popenjay?” It remains entertaining to the end. He’s very good, amongst much else, at distinguishing characters. With other authors, I often use (and rejoice in) the Kindle search feature, which lets me quickly look back to the first appearance of a puzzling character. With Trollope that is never necessary. Perhaps because of publishing in installments?

It's terribly exciting, Linnell (comment yesterday), to hear that you know Hopper's gas station in real life.

 

Who would have thought that that video of Hamish would work? I’m glad you enjoyed it.

 

My KD yarn came today! I’ve wound two skeins, and found a 4mm not-too-long circular. It remains but to choose a size. You might have thought I would have done that already. There are 11 of them. I ordered yarn for an over-generous one. Now I’ve got to narrow it down. This might be somebody’s Christmas present. I don’t want it grotesquely large.

 

Lynn, thank you for your remarks about white, and your introduction to Abby and “The Interior of my Brain”. I will pursue that, but haven’t yet.

 

I have often chosen colours by deriving them from a work of art, with varying success. The most successful of all was my most recent Fair Isle – Alexander’s vest to celebrate Scotland’s most recent Calcutta Cup success. The colour-source was an Edward Hopper called, I think, just “Gas”. I’ve only seen reproductions but it moves me deeply, that picture. One of the main reasons the colours in the vest were so successful, is that there were relatively few of them. A lesson learned. I’ll see if I can pull the pictures out for you.

 

Once, years ago, I based a Fair Isle on a rather peculiar picture – Ingres? – of a woman standing in front of a window through which one can see Vesuvius, with a plume of smoke arising. White smoke. That’s when I learned that white was dangerous – too late to save the sweater. I don’t remember what happened to it. Another lesson learned.

 

I’m continuing to enjoy Trollope’s “Is he Popenjoy?” The claimant has now appeared – a small child who might or might not be the legitimate heir of his father, a Marquis. The main interest of the story is elsewhere. Not Trollope’s best, as I said, but good enough to soothe. And nice and long. However, a weekend looms, and I must re-engage with Italian.

 

I’ll probably get up in the night to watch some of the debate. Mr. Trump is nothing if not entertaining.

 

Again, better weather here than forecast. That still doesn’t mean it hasn’t been pissing down on our cruise-that-isn’t-happening. It’s always wetter in the west. Here’s the Shetland stripe, in this morning’s sunshine:

 

Helen came to heave me around the garden, which was successfully done. She admired the stripes. And the KD yarn didn’t arrive – it would have been rather extraordinary if it had – so I’ll have at least one more day of adding to it. I started to put in an off-white stripe this morning, but soon decided against it. What is it about white?

 

I’ll try to post the video of Hamish clicking. No promises:

 

My guess would be that he did it spontaneously, and his father responded with delight, and it turned into a game delightful to both. Much the same process by which “da-da” and “ma-ma” become “Daddy” and “Mummy”.

 

Language: or wholly-irrelevant-anecdote, as you prefer:

 

Once when I was a student in Glasgow I went to a grown-up drinks party. I can’t remember where or why. Were other students there? And at one point I joined a group of grown-ups who were talking about the whistling language of La Gomera. It’s an island somewhere, and, as it happened, I had only recently heard a most interesting talk on the subject on the Third Programme. (Those were the days.) So I joined in the conversation with youthful enthusiasm and gradually came to realise that one of the grown-ups in the group was the man who had given the radio talk. That shut me up.

 

A few years later – did I tell you this just the other day? – after I had met and married my husband, that same man, now a colleague but still a distinguished linguist, bent over Rachel’s pram and asked, “Is she articulating syllables yet?” She wasn’t, but as soon as we got home she started to do so.

 

I’m going to miss the American election when it’s gone. If it goes. It provides something solid to worry about, beyond the corona virus and Brexit. We’ve had the virus all day today – the central government wanting to put Manchester in something like lockdown, Manchester resisting because they’re not being offered enough money. The virus is staging an impressive come-back and I find it much more frightening, at this dark time of year, than it was in the spring.

 

Our local French restaurant, often chosen for treats, is offering carry-out meals. I order them most weeks. This week Fred sounds a bit desperate. They had re-opened as a restaurant after the initial lockdown (just like the Majestic Line) and have had to close again because of the latest restrictions (just like the Majestic Line). He doesn’t know how long he can carry on.

 

Again, Edinburgh’s weather wasn’t as bad as forecast. We even had half-an-hour of sunshine this morning How it lifts the spirits! And how much better it made my Stripey Shetland look! No, Tamar, no picture. I am just knitting stripes from my Shetland odd-ball bag, using the maths I did for the recently-completed EPS. I’m wondering whether to put in a stripe from its left-over yarn, but I think it would be too bright.

 

I’ve heard from the Kate Davies shop: my package has been dispatched. I can start hoping from tomorrow. And I will.

 

Life

 

Christina and Manaba sent me a little video of Hamish clicking. There’s no doubt at all that he’s doing it deliberately and responsively, and delighting in his new ability to communicate. Manaba isn’t in the video, but you can hear him clicking back.

 

I’ve just finished reading Barbara Vine (=Ruth Rendell) “The Chimney-Sweeper’s Boy”. Late, and not terribly good, by her terrific standards. But one of her characters reads Trollope’s “Is He Popenjoy?” That’s one I don’t know, and I have seized upon it. It’s said to be based on a real-life case of someone who might or might not be the person he is claiming to be, like the Grand Duchess Anastasia. I’m several chapters in, and there’s nothing like that yet. It’s not terribly good either, by his standards.

 

All well, I guess. Archie came, and we did a circuit of the garden. He’s coming back tomorrow for another circuit, and some chores. I’ve knit a few more random Shetland stripes – picture soon – and am not terribly pleased with what is happening. It’s colourful, all right, but messy. I’m going to switch to KD’s whatever-it’s-called as soon as it arrives.

 

The weather is glum. The radio keeps assuring me that rain is sleeting down all over Scotland, palpably not true, but perhaps it is doing so in the west which would be some consolation for our aborted cruise. Food is a good part of the Majestic Line package, but another part is healthful walks in the beautiful wilderness. (I had planned to stay on board with my knitting and some birdwatching.) The weather can be glorious and invigorating, this time of year – it has been recently – but not at the moment.

 

Cats: I have one of those cat-drinking-fountain things in the kitchen. But that’s what’s regarded around here as Paradox’s water. They’re funny animals.

 

Last week’s kimchi is effervescing all over the kitchen counter in a most satisfactory way. I had planned to leave this batch behind to fester away while I was cruising, but in fact I am soon going to want to start eating it. My microbiome must be in splendid condition.

 

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods:

   They kill us for their sport.

 

Andrew, of course, will be the out-lier. This is going to turn out all right. (see comments yesterday) But I am depressed, as are we all. Talking about knitting here seems a bit frivolous this evening.

 

Nor is there any news. I’ve knit a few more random Shetland stripes. I’ve read some of a Barbara Vine which had somehow escaped my attention before.

 

I didn’t get out because – as so often – I was waiting for a delivery.  Archie is coming tomorrow, and effort will be required of me.

 

It would have been today. C. and I should be sipping white wine right now  and eating a delicious amuse bouche and listening to the skipper telling us his plans for tomorrow. (Majestic Line food is superb; in the evening, the first course is brought out and handed round as one sits in the saloon with one’s new friends and one’s wine.) I ordered Kate Davies’ Evendoon pullover kit, to mark the occasion, and compounded the misdeed by ordering the hat kit which (since today) goes with it. Since KD doesn’t have a shop and sells entirely on-line, as far as I know, she won’t have suffered too much from this extraordinary year, so I can’t even salve my conscience with my usual helping-small-business excuse.

 

I could at least bring the WIP section of the sidebar up to date, as a constant spur to my conscience.

 

But I can comfort myself with the thought of how much happier my cats are this evening, did they but know it, than if I had waltzed off to indulge in amuse bouche-eating. Here’s a slightly indelicate domestic scene for you: Perdita has taken to joining me in the Downstairs Lavatory when I am seated there, and somehow we have worked out a routine. I turn on the cold tap to a trickle. She jumps up on the basin – it’s small, and the rim is narrow, and she is a fairly stout middle-aged cat by now, so that takes a bit of calculating. Then she drinks deep. And pauses for a while, and drinks again. (Needless to say, water is provided elsewhere, but that’s Paradox’s water.) I sit there until she jumps down.

 

I could hardly have asked a cat-sitter to go into the Downstairs Lavatory and sit down. Nor would Perdita necessarily have responded. She’s my cat.

 

And I’ve knit a bit further on the random-Shetland EPS. I’ve successfully increased, and have embarked on the st st body. I agree, Shandy, that it’s going to be a long way without anything that could count as challenge factor. At the moment, I feel that’s what I want. Although I think I knit more productively when there’s a challenge involved. The sweater (admittedly, there’s not much of it) is looking good, but I feel that, compared to the Evendoon, random loses out to designer stripes.

 

Life

 

Manaba rang up today – he was out for a walk with his son, I think. He says that he and Hamish click to each other responsively. He also says that there are different clicks, at least one of them slightly rude, so that Zulu grown-ups tell children not to click like that. But as far as I could gather, a click can’t be stretched into a basic word like “Mama” or “Daddy”. I’ll be glad when I can see them again in real life, to observe and discuss clicking, and to talk to Manaba about sourdough. I gave him some of my starter, you may remember, and he has shot ahead of me in the sourdough stakes.

 

I continue to enjoy “The Blessing”. But now that the weekend is with us, my responsibility for Italian resumes.