I’m sorry for yesterday’s absence. I’m not very sprightly, just now.

Judy has provided the definitive link to the solution of the turnip-swede-rutabaga question. In which it appears that rutabagas are swedes, just as you say, Mary Lou. I am sustaining myself these days with a succession of delicious home-made vegetable soups. Perhaps I will include a swede in the next one.

I’ve done some knitting, while watching endless television discussions of our political crisis. For once in a millennium, one might wish for a written constitution. Be that as it may, I have finished four pattern repeats on the Stronachlachar, equalling 14 inches. The target is 16, for the underarm, where some interesting shaping begins.

Non-knit

Here’s a gloomy little item, of dubious relevance.

There was a story in the paper last week about a very distinguished BBC reporter, Martin Bell, who tripped over a suitcase not long ago in the Gatwick railway station as he was returning home from a cruise, and landed on his face and actually broke his skull. He is now retired, but appreciably  younger than I am. The NHS has patched him together very nicely indeed.

That might have been me, in Reggio Calabria. I suppose the difference is that Martin Bell, with the suitcase in front of him, had nowhere to go except onto his face. Whereas I just tripped over some unevenness in the pavement, with unobstructed space in front, and was able to make a three-point landing (face, left forearm, left knee).

Still, it shows why it’s a good idea to take out travel insurance.