Gloom reappeared, weather-wise. And there is little else to report. I haven’t done any knitting at all — not illness or even decline, I don’t think, just disinclination to having to push the stitches around that slightly-too-small needle (see yesterday). I am about to attempt smoked tofu with celery and peanuts from”Every Grain of Rice” for my supper, because it’s next in the book. I may leave the peanuts out.

   What I neglected to mention yesterday is that there has been an article in a horticultural/scientific journal about Wellingtonias. Apparently there are far more in GB than in California. They were brought here in the mid-nineteenth century. The one in the youthful Agatha Christie’s garden (as mentioned here recently) will have been an early specimen. It grows quickly, and, in maturity, is the largest living thing on earth.

   The article apparently doesn’t mention that Mrs Miles of Strathardle put one in recently. I’ll have Helen photograph ours when she is next there.

   Wordle: My starters gave me three browns and a green. I hate anagrams. But all my entries were real guesses — no Jean-words. I scored a very undistinguished five. So did Roger in DC; some comfort.  My nephew Theo, his son, also in DC, scored a brilliant two.

Everybody else scored either three or four. Alexander and his son Thomas, to be specific, were the threes, with identical grids.