Sorry I’m late.

I had to go up to St James’s, and thought I had better do it first thing, while my strength allowed and before the crowds got there. I accomplished what I set out to do, plus a delicious anti-Tony-Blair poster for whichever grandchild wants it; a nice change from Che Guevara.

I got some stuffing for the dog. Kapok is out — the woman’s tone implied that it violated Health & Safety, but perhaps I was being over-sensitive. I’ve got a bag of poly-something-or-other, which I am sure will do fine.

I finished the left side of the dog, and the neck, which (obviously) involved joining the two sides. Tonight, the head. Very fiddly, lots of short rows, but I’m moving forward, scoring out the pattern row by row.

I looked at the list I make at the start of every year, to see if there were any ideas there for the Next Big Thing. No, is the answer; the things I hoped to do, are done, or being done — unless I want to get seriously to work on the Queen Ring Shawl, which is perhaps not a bad idea. The longer I leave it, the nearer the grave.

I’ll re-browse Brooklyn Tweed and the Twist Collective, and wait for inspiration to strike.

Non-knit

I didn’t mention the Games to my husband when I saw him yesterday, for fear of plunging him deeper into gloom at the thought of still being in hospital at the end of next week. But if that proves to be the case, Perdita and I will definitely go. I think we could safely drive there by ourselves — I think she would cringe on the floor of the car, the way our Dear Old Cat used to do. In madcap-mode, she could be dangerous.

The Dear Old Cat didn’t like motor travel at all, but she knew, as my husband put it once, that it was a thing that happened to cats from time to time. She put up with it. And she always knew, winter or summer, when the long journey was nearly over, Bridge of Cally or Spaghetti Junction as the case might be. She would emerge from the floor at that point and walk with increasing excitement from one shoulder to the next.

Indeed, if this ordeal stretches on to the crack of doom, I might even go to Hellie and Matt’s wedding on the 19th of September. But surely my husband will be home by then. 

He is better, but diarrhoea continues. The physiotherapists haven’t yet begun to assess how much weaker he is.

Drink

I don’t think there’s any hope of a temporary reprieve — my blood has been carefully thinned, and is being closely monitored. Drink combines ill with that state of affairs.

The booklet I have been given says to have no more than 2 units a day — half a bottle of Weston’s Vintage; not worth bothering with. It also says, in bold type, that binge drinking is dangerous, combined with Warfarin. There is nothing about the dangers or otherwise of the considerable range in between. What about Christmas? Perhaps a glass of champagne and a single glass of red wine with the goose, wouldn’t take one too far past two units.