I made an unexpected discovery about myself and knitting yesterday – I’ll save it for the end.

We’re moving on. My husband’s trouble is not flu but an abscess in his mouth. [Vindicating yet again that fine fellow, William of Occam, whose approach to life’s problems was, Don’t look for two explanations where one will do. My husband had mentioned toothache at the beginning, but wasn’t in the sort of agony I associate with abscesses so I sort of forgot about that in the face of his general debility.]

The dr prescribed so fierce a dose of antibiotics that it completely flattened him, insofar as he wasn’t completely flattened already. I reported developments to our dentist by telephone, and was astonished when the junior partner came to see us. He has smoothed out the antibiotic dose and recommended rinsing the mouth often with salty water. By evening blood sugars were down – they go haywire in times of illness – and I think the worst is probably over.

Meanwhile Julian phoned again and we talked about his father. It was about as good a death as one could ask for, except that one would have preferred it some other time, not just now, thanks. Duncan was my age. The funeral is on Tuesday (the anniversary of my mother’s death, as it happens) at a convenient time in the early afternoon. If my husband isn’t up to it, I can make a day trip. It will be at the little wooden Episcopal church where his first wife’s funeral was, and his second wedding.

As for knitting, I did virtually none yesterday, except for a round or two of jolly sock in the dr’s waiting room. What I discovered was, knitting is for me a social activity. Me, the least social of souls. I abandoned the Princess last November when my husband was briefly in hospital. I thought it was because stress didn’t allow that sort of concentration, but now I wonder whether I just didn’t feel like knitting because he wasn’t sitting there. When he was restored to me, I proceeded to Christmas knitting, thence to the gansey.

Sure enough, I did those initials wrong. Not only with the letters in the wrong order, but on the back of the sleeve. I think I’ve got it right this time.

I wondered a bit, over the weekend, why I bother to knit anything except socks. Thomas-the-Elder wants another pair; Rachel says her collection is going into holes [I’ll take darning equipment when we next go to London]; Ketki likes the look of the KF socks which will be hers. I tried to persuade Thomas to let me knit a pair like that for him, but no. They might do for a commodity dealer, but are a bit startling for a lawyer.