I like this feeling of life getting back into the groove. In the Olden Days – soon I’ll be the only one old enough to remember – Scotland would have ignored Christmas, largely or entirely, and, for a Wednesday New Year, would have been entirely closed at least until Monday the 6^th. There would have been parties, but after that everybody would have gone to call on everybody else over the next few days. The severest spinster would have whiskey and shortbread on offer. No fireworks. No sales.

It’s not like that any more.

I’m going to an Epiphany Party on Sunday afternoon. I can’t remember when I last attended a social event unconnected with anybody I’m related to.

I did a certain amount of returning-to-the-groove myself today. Gudrun’s hap has advanced, and is going faster and faster. I’m greatly looking forward to the borders. Will I be able to put up with purling?

I did some Italian. I changed the cats’ litter tray – my cleaner, who usually does that, has gone back to Romania because her father-in-law has dropsy (but should return soon). Not much exercise, I’m afraid. Maybe I can get to grips with that tomorrow.

And do some paper work.

We have been speculating about how fast the light comes back. It turns out – Google knows everything – to be about 2 minutes a day. That should mean that we’re edging up towards half an hour already. A precise answer turns out to be impossible because it varies at different times in the year due to the fact that the earth’s orbit is an ellipse. The explanations get complicated.

By Groundhog Day the new light is palpable.

There has been no progress with the Spring Shawl. I have pretty well concluded that it couldn’t have been the cats – when they attack knitting, the evidence is there for all to see. If it wasn’t the cats, and if the shawl isn’t in or under or behind that chest of drawers, I must have put it somewhere. I despair.