I should finish the second sleeve of Relax2 this evening, and pick up stitches for the neck.

The gauge of the Milano is close to that of the Relax – slightly finer. But the number of stitches to be cast on, in relation to actual chest size, is very similar. So how can it have 20” ease when Relax has only 4? I must do some arithmetic.

Tomorrow we must go to Strathardle. I am frightened. We ordered some plants weeks ago – I have forgotten what category they’re meant to come into. Not “ground cover” – we did that last year. Tough perennials of some sort. Now they have arrived, dozens of tiny plug plants. So they must be planted.

Today’s job, however, is a hospital appointment. Rheumatology, for my husband’s hands.

I’m looking forward to Jamie Oliver’s new cookery series, starting this evening – it’s about cooking cheaply.

Literary

I’m reading Ian Rankin’s “Black and Blue”. I’ve never managed to engage with Rankin before, but I’m getting on fine with this one. He came and spoke at Archie’s school, and Archie had a copy signed for me.

It was written in 1994. Inspector Rebus was already a success. They were living in France, presumably having given up the day job, when their son Kit was born. All went well with the pregnancy and birth, but by three months they had begun to realise that something was wrong – he didn’t move enough. At six months, their GP agreed. At nine months, they were driving long distances two or three times a week to have him seen by specialists.

Ian Rankin’s French wasn’t as good as his wife’s – he would come home from these appointments frustrated at his inability to understand fully what the Great Men were saying, and frightened, and angry – and would then take it all out on Inspector Rebus, in a universe where Ian Rankin was God and could make anything happen he wanted. And he wound up with a good book. Kit is very severely disabled.

And thinking about signed copies, I thought of Thomas Lynch. He is an Irish-American poet, essayist, and undertaker who lives and works in a small town in Michigan.

I went to a talk at the Book Festival with Cathy once. We were there to hear a couple of female thriller-writers (this was before Cathy herself had become a member of that category). If I could remember their names, you would recognise them. Sitting there idly reading the program before things started, I learned with a thrill of horror that Thomas Lynch was talking at that very moment, somewhere else. There was nothing to be done.

But as soon as our talk was over, I shot out and found him in a near-by tent. He was sitting alone, as I remember, but memory can deceive. I bought a copy of a book I already owned and presented it to him for signing, babbling about “T’riffic fan; didn’t know you were here; went to the wrong talk”. I may have added something about growing up in Detroit.

He signed it “For Jean, Well met in Edinburgh”. Maybe he signed them all like that, but I like to think it was a brilliant improvisation, for me. In any case, I treasure the book.