It was wonderful. I have much to assimilate, much to tell you, much to thank you for.

But that must wait. For today, I will transcribe a “Found Poem” – that’s the technical term, I discover – which every guest found in a little package at their place, printed on a tea towel. A linen tea towel, at that. There’s no way I can think of to make a photocopy of a tea towel, so I’ll have to copy it out for you:

Edinburgh this morning looks much as Beijing did yesterday

a perfect early spring day, snowdrops, pregnant sheep, clumps of daffodils

pinus sylvestris aurea

Supermarkets are full of dried beans from all over the world.

On a brighter note, tea cosies suddenly seem to be everywhere

Maybe it won’t be as bad as I anticipate

             We had a grand time at Loch Fyne

            We had champagne to drink, which I always enjoy

            Lent or no Lent, cider or no cider

            All I can remember is the name “Joseph”

            My husband thinks that no one will notice, and he could be right

Singapore has fallen and the Japanese are rampaging around the Pacific unchecked

And events in Iceland, of all places, border on the bizarre

These are times such as none of us has ever experienced.

Will Meg’s false seams help?

I think it might be better to get plenty of ammo in, so that we can go to Strathardle and burn wood to keep warm and shoot sheep for food.

Elderly British gamblers will know what I mean.

            My father told me, remember this day, and I have done so.

            A little boy, wearing a kilt, who sang “Bonnie Dundee”

            One of those memories in which I can almost see the room and its furniture

            Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

            Last night I looked it up and discovered after all these years, that I had it wrong

                        “Vampires of Venice” alas is gone

                        Alan Yentob killed it, and has never been forgiven

                        There is a scheme afoot – I won’t say more at this point

                        Meanwhile, the hat looks perfectly nice

the Troubles of Life

every year we pass through the day, unrecognised, which is to become the day of our death

another day more plus than minus, by a narrow margin

So does one insensibly decline, day by day, week by week

I’m not reeeely worried, but…

I’ve become rather worried about socks

green Zauberball socks

Oh, dear

old age is like that, like snow filling up the crevices, cutting off the options.

Timor Mortis Conturbat Me

Knitting went badly last night

The pattern was a Paton’s leaflet.

We’re off to Kirkmichael today

They’ll find it there when I’m dead