I’m sorry for the gap. There’s nothing wrong, exactly. I had hoped that my bold ventures into the Western Isles and then to Wimbledon would restore me to youthful vigour, but that hasn’t happened. I am droopier than ever, and not knitting at all.

I am going to Strathardle next week, with my cats and James and Cathy and their daughters – their son Alistair being about to plunge into his new, postgraduate job. Maybe that will do the trick.

Here, at least, is a cruise picture for you, taken at Tarbert on the island of Harris, after supper one night. Paradise.

That was the only place where we actually docked – otherwise we were at anchor, and went ashore in the tender. That was easily enough managed, but meant that we had to stay ashore until the tender came back. I gave it a miss, sometimes. I am especially sorry to have thus skipped Dunvegan Castle, on Skye, on the way back.

But on Tarbert, I walked ashore and visited a mill where the weaving of tweed was being demonstrated, rather boring, and took these pictures of our dear boat on the way back:

We saw lots of yachts, everywhere, but only one other cruise ship, at Tobermory on Mull. It wasn’t big-big-big like the ones my husband used to enjoy collecting pictures of towering over Venice, but big enough, several hundred passengers. We all felt very happy with our choice as we left it behind after lunch.

I’ve put my name on a waiting list for the two Majestic cruises I would fancy for next year. And, of course, I can go in 2020 if I feel sufficiently sprightly. That doesn’t, at the moment, seem very likely.

Moorecat, you’re right, the whole point of Pointless is the rapport – that’s not entirely the mot juste, but neither is "tension" – between the two presenters. While I wait, perhaps I should take up a soap opera again. My day lacks a focal point.