Today’s sadness – nothing to do with yesterday’s – is a blow indeed. Hermione is gone.

Alexander phoned in the early afternoon, from her earthly home in a suburb of Glasgow, to say that no kitten remained except the ginger tom. Poor little boy – but I don’t want him.

I don’t think there was any confusion in the telephone call in which I staked my claim to Hermione. Well, except for the basic confusion: which kitten was mine? There were two tortoiseshell-and-white girls, and their unwanted brother. I was to have one of the girls. Her owner wasn’t quite sure which one she had already promised. The moral is, I fear – when you find the kitten you want, go get it; don’t depend on the kindness (or reliability) of strangers for a week.

Carla emailed to say that the ending is just like the Gondoliers, which I had myself cited a few days ago. (“One of the two, who will soon be here/ But which of the two, it is not quite clear/ is the royal prince you married.”) At the end of the operetta, it turns out that neither of them is.

So I start again, heartbroken. Perdita says we didn’t need a kitten anyway.

I had a lovely day out with C. Here she is at Stobo Kirk.

And here is the current state of the Soutache. It’s not quite as good as it looks, but I think it’ll do. I think perhaps this is the moment to go back to Miss Rachel and finish the second sleeve:

Mary Lou, I do agree that the “Glaswegian” sweater in the new Knitty is delectable. Knitting with plotulopi is (like fancy brioche) something I have never done and really ought to try. But I’ve got plenty of Unknit Sweaters here – I can always order plotulopi from Meg, or indeed from Iceland. I don’t need to ask my sister to get it for me now.