I toiled all the way through the New Yorker piece on Jeremy Bamber yesterday. I still don’t know — don’t even think I know — whodunnit. It has to be either Jeremy or his schizophrenic sister Sheila, who was among the dead.

   The New Yorker does not so much try to prove Jeremy innocent as to show that Sheila could have done it. She was the first suspect. The New Yorker is hard on the clumsy police; on the natural family of the deceased (Jeremy was adopted) who disliked him and may have delayed or distorted evidence; on the judges at his trial and appeals (tainted by bad judgments on Irish terrorists or just by being English).     The natural family wound up in brisk possession of the considerable ptoperty, if you want to know cui bono. 

   The author of the article is in touch with Jeremy, who protests his innocence and has made a career of the case.

   Nothing much else to report. I’ve had another dopey day, and my excellent carer isn’t feeling very well. Mary Lou has most generously given me access to an ideal pattern of hers for the 10th great-grandchild and I am thinking about yarn.

   Nor must I think too long. It’s going to be hard work to do this in my current state and I’d best get started. Who would have thot that the will to knit would leave me before my last breath?

  Wordle: yet another four for for me. The usual pattern: three browns  from my starters. A fully-valid line three turned one of them green and added another brown consonant. 

   Others: three for Ketki and (yet again) Mark, four for Alexander and  Rachel (and I). Silence from Thomas.  Still in bed? Four for Roger, five forTheo.