I’ve charted Thomas’ initials, for the concluding bit of the Calcutta Cup scarf; and have done such other minor calculations as were necessary. I realised I had been postponing those chores. I think I’ll probably do one more cross – they come every six rows. Maybe two. Then four rows without crossing. Then the end. I’m getting there.

Thank you very much for all of yesterday’s comments. And thank you, too, to those who like my sister couldn’t post, but wrote to me. You were a great comfort.

Non-knit

I’ll have to drop the Sakoolas case – this is getting ridiculous. But today I wanted to say how pleased I am that the dead man’s parents refused to meet Mrs S. in the oval office. It is not easy to say no to the most powerful man in the world in his own house – even if it is only Donald Trump. And it is not easy to make the right call when taken by surprise. Photographers were poised.

(Speaking of making the right call when taken by surprise, I feel Prince Charles doesn’t get enough credit for going to Paris that day and bringing Diana’s body back to London. They were fully divorced. They truly hated each other. He was at Balmoral with his sons. Only days before she had been scampering around the Mediterranean with Dodi. But Prince Charles got it right.)

Reading

I have gone straight on to “Framley Parsonage”. Trollope makes a splendid show in the first chapter of laying all his cards on the table – the young, handsome vicar is provided with a wife “somewhat larger than common” but, on the whole, a Good Thing. There are a couple of children. The living pays well. I suspect, like any conjuror, that the old boy has a few more cards up his sleeve.

And I am interweaving chapters of “Olive Kitteridge”. That book is a series of connected – but not consecutive – short stories. This is a re-reading, for me. Do read it if you haven’t yet.