Sorry for silence. The Polliwog is finished; so is the
Northmavine Hap.
The winning gimmick, of course, is that wrap-over neckline, allowing access for the oversized infant head.
Now what? The choice, for immediate casting on, is between KD’s “Miss
Rachel’s Yoke” and Wallin’s “Lovage”. Both, slightly to my surprise, are shaped
at the waist – fine for a stickler like Andrea of Fruity Knitting, but I live back there with EZ: cast on, rib, increase 10%, knit to armholes.
I’ve got to decide, and cast on this evening, because
James and Cathy and some daughters of theirs (my granddaughters, Rachel and
Kirsty) are motoring northwards as we speak. We’ll spend tomorrow here – their son
(my grandson Alistair), who is doing a paid internship with J.P.Morgan in
Glasgow for the summer, will come over tomorrow, and Greek Helen will lay on
lunch for us all.
Then, on Monday, Strathardle – including, of course,
Perdita. This time I’ll set her free. She’s not stupid, and she loves me, in
her furry way. And she likes her catfood.
I should be back sometime next weekend.
There then follows an exciting week of Edinburgh
Festival. Rachel’s daughter Lizzie (my granddaughter) will be here with a
friend for a couple of nights. Archie and I have our cultural highlights
planned, as you’ve heard – and today I
added tickets for something very fringe-y-sounding, £YE$ (LIES) by the Belgian group Ontroerend
Goed, hyped in today’s Financial Times. It sounds more than a bit interactive,
which could be embarrassing. I hope he’s up for it.
Royalty
Peggy (comment last
time): one of the very nice things about Pointless is that the presenters are
so nice, and funny. The quiz that used to fill that slot, before the early
evening news, was led by a woman who made a speciality of being rude to the
contestants. It’s grand to see niceness win!
I agree that it was sad
that Princess Margaret didn’t get to marry the man she loved; and also agree
that Wallis Simpson would have made a most unsuitable Queen, especially in war
time. Whereas the younger brother, George VI, and his dumpy Scottish wife, were
perfect.
Many wealthy British sent
their children to safety in the US and Canada. The King and Queen, of course,
didn’t. But in the dark months of ’40 and ’41, when invasion was feared with
every full moon, the anxiety must have been a degree or so worse for any
family, like the royal one, who had daughters of that particular age.