A grand weekend –

I’m sorry I have no pictures to show you. On Easter Sunday we had a particularly splendid day – sunshine, and windless. The impressive hills which surround Loch Fyne were marvellously mirrored in its still waters. Easter was early, spring is late – we were cold. But it was wonderful.

A jolly priest comes over from Dunoon to say Mass in Inverary. In earlier life, he was a postman, before he gave that up for the priesthood. He it was who officiated at the wedding of Matt and Hellie, in Alexander and Ketki’s garden, a couple of years ago. He began his Easter sermon by telling us that, in view of the calendar date, he was tempted to begin by saying that the resurrection never happened, we were all barking up the wrong tree; and then sitting down. But he wasn’t brave enough, he said.

Given the size of the world, and the popularity of the poisson d’avril, I wonder if any clergyman anywhere actually did it.

Knitting went well. The Calcutta Cup vest, tried on Alexander, is manifestly too large. The tape measure wasn’t necessary. I could gather up a pattern-repeat into my hand and see that what was left would (probably) do nicely. And, actually knitting,  I got well down the leg with Archie’s second-attempt socks. They are rather alarming, colour-wise. He hasn’t seen them yet.

All is well here. If the cats were actually glad to see me, they didn't say so, but they have clearly been well looked after. Both are here beside me as I type.

Rachel will be 60 this summer. (If you want to feel old, try having a daughter of 60.) We are planning various celebrations, and she says she wants a pair of socks. She enters the Wimbledon lottery every year, and this time, God has come through for her: two Centre Court tickets for the second Friday (which is surely Men’s Semi-Final Day). She has invited me to join her, and, goodness! what a thought! Federer himself!