A pleasant day. No walk, but some knitting. I’ve finished the left front of Fergus’ sweater and slid the stitches along to be ready to start the other side. Not much, but something.

 I think I’ve pretty well decided to go ahead and pay to have my hip replaced privately. Lying in bed this morning – a moment I often find conducive to productive thought – I remembered an ISA account that ought to cover it. In the general financial upheaval that followed my husband’s death, it got transferred into strange hands and since then has swallowed its own tail (=hasn’t paid interest into the general accounts). Helen’s husband David has spent an heroic day trying to gain access to it. Now I need to ring up our doctor and ask to be referred. I will allow myself two or three weeks in that highly comfortable old folks’ home where I spent a fortnight last May. They’re good on convalescence (physiotherapy, visits from doctors). What is to become of my CATS?

ISA means tax-free, so I don’t need to worry about having more or less forgotten about it. We’re in the midst of income tax this month. I feel rather sorry for Mr Zahawi (a remark unintelligible except to British readers). I, too, have had to pay penalties, after the upheaval mentioned above. And he’s a busy man.

Kirsten, the difficulty at my age when it comes to the "rainy day" issue, is not knowing how much to allow for what could turn out to be years of terminal care. I firmly believe that old folks ought to pay for it if they can, rather than relying on the state. But I would also like to leave (the value of) this house to my children. Inheritance tax is heavy here, but the government makes considerable allowance for a family house passed to direct descendants. It's probably simpler not to think about such things. 

 

Wordle: I failed. First time this year. Theo and Big Rachel did it in three. Thomas offered me some comfort by scoring six.