You have hit the jackpot again, Shandy. After only a moderate amount of thrashing about, I found a series of Neil MacGregor podcasts called, I think, “Living with the Gods”. With their help – three episodes so far – I have polished off the second skein. Presumably when I finish this series, I can find others.

Two skeins have yielded 6 ½”, not much. I will therefore need slightly more than half the yarn to get to the underarm. If I run short, the only solution will be to do the whole yoke in a different yarn. Madtosh dk is a fave of mine. I am ransacking stash, but am so far unsuccessful in finding yarn I know is there.

“Fake or Fortune” tonight, in which I gather we get to hear Fiona Bruce speaking French. (I was impressed with Jamie Oliver’s spoken Italian in his new cookery programme last week, too.) I should get the new skein wound and embarked upon.

My Neil MacGregor story is hardly worth telling. My husband and I were at a small exhibition devoted to Sir George Beaumont, an important patron of, among others, my husband’s artist D*vid W*lkie. I don’t remember where we were – maybe Tate Britain. Nobody much was there. Neil MacGregor came in and said “Hello, Hamish” for that was my husband’s name.

I have met one or two famous people who sort of glow with fame. Aren’t-you-lucky-to-be-talking-to-me sort of thing. Neil MacGregor wasn’t like that. He was alone, wearing an undistinguished raincoat. I doubt if I was in fact introduced. I don’t remember what happened next. Probably they exchanged a few words about Sir George Beaumont and went their separate ways.

At least I knew who he was. We were once in a dealer’s showroom when a man came in, with two friends. The dealer cried “Hello, David!” in great excitement. I had all the clues – he was tanned, and I even caught a faint whiff of homosexuality. When we were safely out on the pavement where I couldn’t do anything embarrassing, my husband told me that it was David Hockney we had just seen.