If I were not so happy and relieved about the outcome of the Scottish referendum, I could wish it had gone the other way for the pleasure of watching Mr Salmond squirm as the world oil price falls and falls. I wonder what he's thinking, in his quiet moments? His whole premise was what a rich little nation Scotland would be – based on North Sea Oil. Greed and stupidity having already brought down Scotland's two great banks and much diminished Edinburgh as a major financial centre.

Malwarebytes claims to be hard at work again this morning, blocking things every few seconds, this time unprompted by me. And it's working, to some extent. Things are a bit better. But why am I being persecuted like ths?

Thank you for your Christmas comfort. Shandy, that's a good idea, to blog every other day – I may need to employ it in January, to get the tax done. But for now, I need this morning time with you guys to keep me sane. And you're right, in general – relax! It doesn't matter! I love the idea of sending the cards in April, Tamar – and what pleasure they must have brought the recipients.

I had two years off, after all, and the world didn't stop revolving. In 1991 or so, I broke my right arm during the last week of November. No cards that year. (We were in Strathardle. I was wandering around in the late afternoon gloom, looking for my husband, with a diabetic snack in one hand, or possibly both. I slipped on a rock concealed in the damp grass. At least, nowadays, I know where he is.)

And in 1995, Helen's and David's first child – a boy, like all the subsequent ones – died during the first week of December, after a little lifetime spent entirely in hospital (in Edinburgh, where he was born). I remember walking along Princes Street during that December, looking at all the tense and miserable faces, and thinking, not me; I'm exempt, this time.

One thing I can certainly do is answer the important cards as they come in, instead of writing a message now based on the sender's last-year card. You're right, Shandy, that it is depressing to regard the swathe death has cut through one's address book. And, no doubt, this year's crop of incoming cards will bring more bad news.

Then there is the related problem, which I have mentioned here before, of losing touch with the rest of a family when death removes one's main point of contact. I've got a couple of those, to whom I have been sturdily sending cards ever since the bereavement. Time to give up.

Knitting continued well last night, except that one of my beloved Cubics – I'm not going to stop to look up the spelling – broke in my hand, for no particular reason. And with no loss of stitches. The stitches of the Unst Bridal Shawl are on a long circular, being knit off one by one into the edging. I am using a short sock needle – the unfortunate Cubic – as the other needle.

Archie will be here this afternoon, school having given up for the term. I'll drive him to the airport tomorrow, a job I much enjoy, to send him off to Athens. I hope my husband is not too hard on him. What shall we eat?