Another nice day. I really must work some “out” into my self-improvement programme.

  I”ve been watching the latest Fruity Knitting, while knitting myself. Why don’t I enjoy it the way I used to? Is it just that it’s so familiar now? Or — the theory I favour — did something irreplaceable go when Andrew died?

  My own knitting has turned the final corner, attaching edging to my shawl. It really looks rather well when I shake it out.  In sunlight, the colours even look rather well. (It’s a Malabrigo yarn called Primavera, of an overall dullish brown.) 

  But of course the months that loom are the ones that don’t go in for sunshine very much. The baby is due in “late September.” The shawl should be more or less ready for him. (We know we’re getting a “him”.) I’m scheduled to leave Cramond on the 13th, I think. I’ll finish and block it at home — a process far too complicated to attempt here.

  C. came to see me this morning. She was scheduled to go to a barbecue this afternoon, taking a bowl of tabbouleh as her contribution. I don’t think I’ve ever made it. It sounds very good, and very simple. I’ll put it on my list. Somehow the more crippled I am by the infirmities of old age, the more enthusiastic I get  about the prospect of cooking, although I can scarcely move around a kitchen (or anywhere else).

  Jamie Oliver is about to publish a new book — Five Mediterranean Ingredients, or words to that effect. I have a lot of his books, but feel that his inspiration is beginning to run thin.

Wordle: it looked for a while this morning as if I was to be the one to spoil the show. I scored five. Everybody else had three. Thank goodness: Theo logged in with a five just before noon. What time is that in DC?

My starters gave me two green vowels. My guess for line three — a perfectly qualified word — achieved nothing except to eliminate three more consonants. Line four did better— one of the newly-proposed letters was brown.