Little has been accomplished, but I have at least somewhat recovered from my exertions of yesterday.

Here is the yarn which recently emerged from my stash, with which I mean to knit Mary Lou’s pattern for my new great-grandchild, as soon as the hap is finished:

It has lost its label, but it must be sock yarn and it must be machine-washable (because I buy no other sort of sock yarn) and it must be 400 yards long. Famous last words. The colour seems highly suitable for a sophisticated 21^st century baby, and straddles the sexes nicely.

Here is the swatch I knit yesterday in Felicity Ford’s class:

Totally insignificant. I think I must nerve myself to throw it away. We had beautiful pictures of Arthur’s Seat on the table before us, among which we were invited to choose. Some were landscapes, some – mine – were close-ups. Mine was of pinky-red rock, with bits of differently-coloured rock showing through, and my venture was fairly successful, although meaningless without the source-photograph.

One of us said that she had grown up in Edinburgh, with Arthur’s Seat visible from her bedroom window. Then she burst into tears. She lives in Oslo now.

Felicity Ford knows the entire Jamieson & Smith range by catalogue number. "You might want to try some SQ27 there," she would cry, and then dive into a carrier bag and produce it.

I think the only other unreported EYF news is that Jamieson & Smith had a white lace hap pinned up, no fancier than Becca’s and perhaps slightly smaller – although of course free from holes – with a price tag of £450. I was pleased to see the value of knitting so well-respected. But it probably didn’t sell.

I have only knit one long row today – I’ll go and do another one or two now, before bed. While I did it, I counted and did the arithmetic in my head. I was doing row 4 of the 4-row repeat, and at the end of it I needed 80 more stitches. That means 8 more 4-row repeats, as each adds 10 stitches. That doesn’t sound too bad. Except for idle days like today, I’m still managing a repeat a day.

Reading

I’m enjoying The Claverings. A couple of the characters keep horses, and I hope we shall have a hunting chapter. Trollope does them brilliantly, and I haven’t read one for a long time.

There is an article in today’s Financial Times – the only newspaper I buy – recommending the pleasures of reading thrillers in one’s bath. I don’t read in the bath any more. I fear it’s dangerous for one as feeble as I am. But I remember what fun it was. I used to read Vogue Knitting Books there. The article recommends some books, and since I agree with the author's judgement about some that she mentions, I ventured to buy cheap Kindle copies of two I hadn't heard of.