We’ve got our baby: Hamish Olwethu Myeni, a hefty 8lb 6oz, born this morning. The Zulu name means “ours”. His mother’s mother, my niece C., has only daughters, and his father’s mother, only sons; so I guess that’s a score for C. Everybody is very happy, anyway.

 Again, a day of little achievement (by me). Some Boccaccio and some Dante. More must be done this evening.

I had an email from the Ginger Twist Studio this morning. She is offering, among other things, a “mystery kit” – you say how much you want to pay, and whether you’re a knitter or a crocheter or what, and provide a word of inspiration, and she will choose a pattern and yarn and perhaps sundries for you. I am strangely tempted, although it would be absurd. Perhaps it is the duty of those of us who can afford it, to spend money with the small businesses which are so likely to disappear in this strange and dreadful world. “Edinburgh spring” would be my inspiration-word, although in fact that’s two.

From the sound of it, she might even cycle by and deliver the package herself. The wee shop is within (fairly strenuous) walking distance.

In delving into my stash the other day, I found the bag of oddballs from my Shetland Wool Adventure a year ago – apparently undiminished by the knitting of Dathan Hap Two. Perhaps I might think of a simple EPS sweater, striped. I don’t like Kate Davies’ Dathan dolman-sleeved pullover (and the time I saw someone wearing one, at the EYF last year, it wasn’t sitting properly on her shoulders). Meg re-told the EPS story in four successive issues of Knitter’s once, and I’ve kept the issues.

Sourdough

It’s all very mysterious. My starter is alive. It responds to being fed by producing lots of bubbles on the surface, which later subside. But it’s not spongy, and, more significantly, it doesn’t rise and fall, thereby indicating that it could leven bread. Christine, how’s yours? We’re now at six days. It ought to be ready. I am using plain flour from Sainsbury’s, because that’s all I could get.