What happened was this:

On Friday evening my husband injected insulin at 8:30 – he was working at his computer, as usual. I called him to his food at 9. (I don’t like eating so late, but it is the schedule he prefers.) When he hadn’t turned up at 9:40 I went to fetch him – it is dangerous to delay food after injecting insulin.

Fifty-four years of marriage should have taught me that the moment when I set forth to call him again, is the moment when he finally comes. But I forgot, and collided with him in the dark just outside his study door. We both fell.

I was all right, but he didn’t seem entirely conscious. I called our nearest neighbour for help. He decided at once that what my husband needed was not to be levered to his feet, but an ambulance. It came promptly. Our neighbour helped me pull myself and the necessary things together – my husband’s medicaments and a repeat prescription form to provide a list for the drs; a telephone; and some knitting. That, at least, was ready to go – the current travel sock is always in its Royal Botanic Gardens hessian bag in the stash cupboard, ready to grab.

I told the ambulance people the story. They tested blood sugar, which was indeed dangerously low, and started dripping glucose into my husband while the ambulance bumped along. At the hospital they examined and x-rayed him and attached him to a machine which monitored various things but low blood sugar remained the only identifiable problem.

And after a while he got to be more conscious again.

The hospital expected to keep him but he wanted to go home. By 2 a.m. he seemed close to normal to me, and proved able to take the few steps necessary. I promised to bring him back if I got worried. We got to bed at 3:30. I wonder if we had ever been so late, even in our raucous youth. We spent most of yesterday in bed and continued to improve.

After all we had read about the Scottish Drink Problem, we were surprised at the calm and peaceful aspect of A&E in Edinburgh’s main hospital on a Friday night. At least 5/8ths of the clientele seemed to be Silly Old Fools like ourselves. No blood, only one brief episode of obscene shouting. We remarked on this, towards the end, to the kind and intelligent nurse in charge of us. “Shhhh,” she said, “we don’t use the q-word.”

I made great progress with the current sock during all this. This is the one being knit of Kaffe’s “hand-dye effect” from Regia, the surprisingly soft and fluffy yarn which is very gently twisted rather than manifesting the firm, crisp ply of other sock yarns. The colour is wonderful, and the resulting fabric deliciously soft. But will it be strong enough? It’s got 25% “polyamide” and 5% acrylic in it, which ought to be plenty, and Regia ought to know their business, but I think I will reinforce heel and toe. I haven’t done that, or needed to, for years.

There is a good deal more to say both about knitting and about the state of the world, but I’ll leave it until tomorrow.