Calcutta Cup day

It looks somewhat unpleasant out there, but not exactly stormy yet.

I have addressed myself to Flower of Scotland. It's a terrible song, the general tenor of which seems to be, we're beaten already. Why not sing Scots Wha Hae? It's equally un-singable, no contest there, but much more inspiriting. Written by an actual poet, to begin with, and the general idea is, Death or Victory! “Now's the day and now's the hour/ see the front o' battle lour.” What's wrong with that?

Kick-off is at five, awfully late. I disapprove, as you know. The Loch Fyne party will pick me up at a out 3:30. Our niece is coming in mid-afternoon to keep my husband company. “Do I have to watch it?” he asks. When I get back we will have a tasty supper from Cook, if it is delivered this afternoon as it should be. They did us very well on Christmas Eve, Helen and her family here, when we got home from the Christmas Vigil Mass.

I have also bought some of Mr Crombie's Six Nation Sausages, a package for Alexander to take back to Loch Fyne, another, smaller one for our niece, a couple for us. Pork from Scotland, herbs from England, leeks from Wales, Guinness from Ireland, onions from France, tomatoes from Italy – that's the recipe. They appear on the slab only at this time of year.

I mean to treat myself as tenderly during the day as if I were starting at scrum half, but I will have, at least, to leave the kitchen in a respectable state for our niece to make my husband's tea.

There is ittle else to report. I have finished the second repeat on the centre of the Unst Bridal Shawl, and I PROMISE to stop when I've done the third, and polish off the Milano. I doubt if much will be done today, but perhaps I might get in a row or two this morning, under the treating-myself-tenderly heading.

Comments

Tricia, thank you. Mr Branson seems to hsve brought us back to Scotland, for the early evening news, so all is well. I use Google several times every day, like all of us, but it wouldn't have occurred to me to Google “Virgin Media wrong local news” and it is a great comfort to know that there are so many fellow-sufferers. The odd thing is, I discovered that if I recorded “Reporting Scotland” we could then watch it – so both signals must have been flowing in through the cable at the same time.

And, Peggy, yes, I've “always” had the New Yorker, since childhood. I give it to all four of our children, and I'm glad to say that at least some of the grandchildren read it. Thomas-the-Elder reads the digital version on his iPad, a spin-off from his mother's subscription. For my 70th birthday, now well in the past, Alexander made me an alphabet book. N was for New Yorker, and the page shows the two covers nearest to my birthdays in 1933 and 2003 – they are miraculously similar in colour and tone.

R was for, not Rugby, but Rob and Romaine. The Wainwrights, by then already retired to Coll, signed a snapshot of themselves for me. Knitlass, you'll understand.