I’m feeling sort of sad about Teddy Kennedy. The old reprobate kinda redeemed himself in his later decades. It was my friend Margot, whose funeral I went to in Birmingham last summer, who rang us up that evening in November long ago to tell us that JFK was dead. We spoke again when Robert died. “When they get Teddy,” she said that time, “you can phone me.”

Mel, I had neglected to be grateful for the fact that I don’t have squirrels to contend with in Strathardle. We’re in the dwindling area inhabited by the native red, who are gradually being driven to extinction by their larger and nastier grey cousins. They are shy; it is an event when we see one; they are welcome to come and dig up the peas if they like.

Foxes are rare with us, presumably because the farmers don’t care to have them around the lambs. There was one happy year when we had a feral cat nesting in our byre with a litter of kittens. Just the thing, I thought: a predator for rabbits, harmless to lambs. That was when we lived down south and could only visit at longish intervals. Our neighbours did away with the cats.

I spoke to my sister-in-law Christina yesterday – her voice sounds much better, although not entirely well. We’ll call on her soon. She’s exactly Edward Kennedy’s age, for what that’s worth.

And as for knitting, I sped along with Cathy’s sock and should turn the first heel today.

It's been great, reading about the Men's Knitting Conference. All my friends were there, and it seems to have been a howling success.