No forrad’er with the mutton, alas. I was exhausted after the Italian lesson, as usual, and haven’t done much else. I still have time and perhaps strength to do the preliminaries tonight — but the one thing one is not allowed to do, with slow cooking, is to store the stuff overnight in the slow cooker in the refrigerator. Especially, perhaps, in my case, as I have a wonderful cast iron one, endorsed by Nigella, a Christmas gift from my children. It might be worth doing the preliminaries anyway and facing the extra washing up.

No, I think not. Knitting perhaps, then bed.

I knit a bit of scarf yesterday, and hope for a bit more this evening. Something went wrong with the pattern but then it righted itself and I think all difficulties have been swallowed by the dark yarn.

Jared is about to produce a new yarn called “Ranch 2: Forbes” — a single-breed Rambouillet. In his previous trailer (not today’s) the Burgundy dark red was to me beyond beautiful, at least as it appeared on a computer screen. He’s done a good hat pattern for it. I could give everybody one for Christmas— (but first, Jean, you would have to finish that scarf).

It’s woollen-spun, just shy of worsted-weight. In the EYF drop-spindle class I took in ‘18 I learned at last, in a way I have been able to remember, what “woollen-“ and “worsted-“ spun mean. More or less.

Non-knit

Tomorrow is a big day, and I am feeling strangely bereft. Cardinal Newman is going to be declared a saint. In Rome, of course. Prince Charles will be there.

We lived in Birmingham for many years, and Newman’s Oratory was our parish church. All the priests we knew are dead now, all but one, Fr. Ian Ker, who left the Oratory and who will, I hope, be in Rome tomorrow. Google has told me how to watch the ceremony but, alas! at a time when I will be at Mass.

Newman died quietly, at a great age, and the community has kept his room as he left it. They called in my husband once, to advise on maintaining it. Women were not allowed upstairs (I hope that is still true) so I couldn’t go with him.

Draw the curtains, he told them. Nothing does more damage than sunshine. I dare say he gave them more advice than that.

Now, perhaps, it will be a shrine, and they will have to let women in. I know, from outside, which was Newman’s window.