It’s been what constitutes for old people, a busy week, and I’m very tired. On Sunday, we got back from Strathardle (something of an effort, always) and said goodbye to Helen. On Monday, old friends came to lunch. On Tuesday, tea with Geoffrey. Yesterday, my husband had a scan at the Royal Infirmary.

It was concluded some time ago that there is nothing medical science can do about his breathlessness, and it isn’t getting worse very fast. But our GP has recently referred us to the Infirmary again, and that means a scan (yesterday) and a session in the Breathing Laboratory (soon) before we get to see the Great Man (towards the end of May).

So, tired. Today I will wash dishes (left undone yesterday), shop, cook, wash more dishes, and that will be about it.

I allowed myself to begin the day just now with Franklin’s Heirloom Lace, Lesson 3. It was pretty basic stuff, about chart reading and such, excellently presented. Tell them what you’re going to say, say it, tell them what you’ve said. I can’t advance to the next lesson until I’ve done some homework. There is value in going back through the basic stuff, slowly and carefully.

And I can reassure you (and myself) -- my other Craftsy course -- that the Relax is a surprisingly good design for the bottom-heavy figure. What we don’t want, Herzog says, is much of a horizontal line at the widest point. The Relax has a wide neckline (good), less than full-length sleeves (good), and an unobtrusive bottom edge. She would have me shorten it a bit, if need be, so that it doesn’t end at the worst moment. I’ll look in to that.

The Infirmary was so brisk yesterday that I didn’t get much knitting done. I could have done with more, after the driving and the parking and the finding of my husband (I had let him out at the door) through yards and yards of sandy passages (Beatrix Potter, somewhere). I did better in the evening, and I’m now around the first heel and steaming down the foot.

Non-knit, on recognition

Thanks for comments, about my not recognising Geoffrey. My own best experience on that front was when a man stopped me on Broughton Street some years ago – I was climbing the hill to the fishmonger, as often – and said, “Don’t I know you?”

Well, he wasn’t Alexander and he wasn’t James and he wasn’t drunk – the best I could suggest was that each of us looked like the sort of person the other might know. Rather an intelligent suggestion, I thought. But then he said his name. I knew that.

He had been a Jesuit novice to whom I had taught Greek in Birmingham. One of my faves, in fact. “Can I kiss you?” I said.

He is a Jesuit no longer (he never became a priest). We have remained in touch – he works with Burmese refugees in eastern India. I think I’ll send him an email right now suggesting more coffee.