Again, sorry for silence.

Medical

Little C is making progress slowly. She has some “bone bruising”, a new concept both to me and to her mother.

And my husband has been moved to the Royal Victoria building at the Western General Hospital, where he is vastly happier. He is in a locked ward, which seems a bit sinister. They suspect a degree of memory loss. I don't think so, or at least not to an extent which is going to cause us any problems. He can tell undoubted Raphael's from Gerard Dow's and Zoffany's, like Gilbert's Major General.

But he doesn't seem to be reading at all. During his first hospital stay, for the chest infection, whenever that was, last month I guess, he polished off an early Graham Greene but now seems to have lost interest. He's got Molly Keane and Nabokov's "Speak, Memory" to hand. He doesn't want me to bring in a New Yorker.

Life

Archie is here, a great solace. I always thought I enjoyed solitude, but in fact have sort of crumbled. It's delightful to have someone to cook for again, and Archie is a particularly good subject in that respect. He'll come with me for today's visit.

We'll have Nigella's Tagliata (from “Nigellissima”) for lunch and her Red Prawn and Mango Curry (from "Nigella Express") for supper, is the plan.

Knitting

Not much. In fact, I didn't knit at all yesterday (when Archie arrived) – a rare event.

Zilboorg's “Knitting for Anarchists” has arrived and I think will repay careful study.

Kate Davies has been writing about self-publishing. Her own books “Colours of Shetland” and, more recently “Yokes”, were both produced that way. I think I'm going to order Lucy Hague's “Celtic Cable Shawls”.