All well. I’ve finished Miss Rachel’s Yoke. I think a passage with the steam iron will suffice, rather than total blocking. And tomorrow I must photograph it side-by-side with the blissful madtosh DK half-brioche. The shape and size look very good. Comfort remains to be established.

Then I picked up the Soutache, at first with utter despair. I’ve located all the pages of the pattern from the places to which the cats had dispersed them -- a good first step. And I have re-read them thoroughly. I had stopped with a wrong-side row facing. All such rows are plain-vanilla brioche. I’ve done that, and thus have restored a bit of confidence. I think I’ve figured out where I am. I will have to be very careful where and when I put it down again, and I think a substantial message to myself would be a good idea.

A message from Carol Sunday arrived today, about some new scarf designs, including a new super-dooper brioche one which doesn’t show up in the previous link. Also Craftsy seems to have a new, non-Marchant, brioche class.

Probably even more exciting, Kate Davies has published another teaser about her forthcoming new yarn and book club. We have only to wait until next Friday!

Non-knit

I think you’re right, Shandy, that I’m pressing Jane Austen too hard for political parallels. It was just that the situation on whatever-day-it-was, when Ms Patel was summoned back from an official visit to Africa, seemed suddenly very female and Austen-like. And Ms Patel seemed very Mary-Crawford-like. Best to leave it there.

When they invite me onto “Desert Island Discs” I will be torn between Mansfield Park and Il Gattopardo for my book (and sorry to have to leave Brideshead behind). I think I’ll go for Il Gattopardo, but I’m not sorry to have been brought back to Mansfield Park by these recent reflections. It is interesting, and rather curious, to love the book so much without having much affection for any of the characters.

Cats

I left Paradox free last night, and so had her in bed with me. I don’t know where Perdita was – somewhere near, perhaps under the bed, as she appeared as soon as I got up. Paradox is a bit of a trial in bed, much purring and I-want-to-come-under-the-duvet followed shortly by no-perhaps-I-don’t.