All is more or less in order here, with the emphasis perhaps rather on “less” than “more”. James and Cathy and their daughters should be here within the hour. Sparkling water is chilling for them in the refrigerator (they are an abstemious family). The Jamie Oliver traybake is ready to go – briefly – into the oven, including the salmon which I managed to purchase this morning after a struggle up the hill.

And we don’t have to start at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

Thank you for your comments about Fitbit.  I would be almost embarrassed to have one – I mean, to let Fitbit know how unfit I am. But perhaps it would help, first to find out how many steps I take in a normal, sluggish day; then to raise the target a bit; then a bit more.Would it work?

Knitting

Today's Fruity Knitting is extremely interesting. I want to order wool from this week’s Shepherdess, and I am very interested in Asa Tricosa’s Ziggurat top-down seamless method of sweater knitting. The book is expensive, and Amazon doesn’t have it; but it sounds as if it belongs on my shelves. Asa and EZ would have hit it off, I feel very sure.

I have a week to cool down – there’s no use ordering such a thing when I won’t be here to open the door to the postman.

I advanced Archie’s sock somewhat last night, watching “Lewis”. Like the absurd “Endeavour” of the evening before, it derives from Colin Dexter’s “Morse” books. I’ve never read any of them, but “Morse” was an enjoyable television series.

I won’t try to blog from Strathardle. I should be back in a week.

Not as good a day as yesterday; better than Saturday.

I’m pretty well ready for the Mileses tomorrow. James and Cathy will probably stay here, their daughters will go to Helen’s empty flat nearby. I got to Waitrose this morning and bought all the ingredients for an easy Jamie Oliver traybake to feed them with – except that I forgot to get the principal one. I will have to walk up to the fishmonger’s tomorrow for salmon.

The kitchen is in a state from which, I think, it can be reduced to order with tomorrow morning’s strength.

When I was last in Strathardle, in May, with C., I walked with her to the village and back, perhaps a mile and a half in all. I wonder if I can do that now. I feel I am sliding downhill rather briskly. Of course, in May, we weren’t in the middle of an epic heatwave.

Would a Fitbit help?

Knitting

I got on with Archie’s socks last night, watching a truly preposterous episode of Endeavour which I had recorded. Corpses from one end of Oxford to the other – 15, at least. They managed to get through it with straight faces.

The socks are very near the toe shaping of the second. I’ll take them along to Strathardle, and would certainly hope to finish, and to embark on Rachel’s Sixtieth Birthday ones. Then back to Alexander’s Calcutta Cup vest in peaceful August.

Thank you for your comments about EZ. It sort of sounds as if we all found her accidentally, some earlier, some later. I was knitting circular Fair Isles in the late 70’s-early 80’s, on my own. EZ would have been a great help.

A major breakthrough for me was the discovery of Mary Thomas’ Knitting Book. She describes how to catch the colour-not-being-knitted-with in all four situations (how to catch the left-hand colour when knitting with the right hand, and vice versa, and similarly when purling). I can’t remember that EZ does that anywhere. I can't think of it anywhere else. No doubt all on YouTube these days.

A better day, today. Not difficult, as yesterday I did nothing at all.

Today

n  I tidied the kitchen somewhat. It’ll have to be more than somewhat, by the time James and Cathy get here on Tuesday to carry me off to Strathardle. It’s a start, however. I now have a dishwasher, which makes things easier, but still, a finger has to be lifted.

n  I watered the plants. That sounds easy, but I have a lot of pots out there on the step, and water is fearfully heavy.

n  I cleaned the litter trays. That’s easier than it sounds.

n  I got all the way to the corner shop to buy the weekend Financial Times and some Brillo.

And there will still be time, after my nap, to do a couple more things – pay an important bill and perhaps sweep the kitchen floor; plan the meal with which to welcome James and Cathy on Tuesday. And do some knitting, I hope.

I sit here surrounded by Zimmermanns, plucked from their place on the shelf, I think, to help me decide where to divide Alexander’s Calcutta Cup vest for the armholes. I find myself wondering whether my knitting life would have been different if I had stayed in the USofA. Would I have discovered her sooner?

I think I first heard of her through an article in the Sunday Times Magazine. One was invited to send an s.a.e. for a copy of the Baby Surprise. I still have the mimeographed sheet, now more than a bit tattered. The pregnancy code names of the various grandchildren I have knit it for are all recorded on it.

I think the first was Rachel’s daughter Hellie, now approaching 30. Therefore this must have happened some time in the late ‘80’s. But Woolgathering was launched in the late ‘50’s, not long after EZ started selling patterns to magazines. “Knitting Without Tears” was published in ’71. When were the Public Service television series? And would news have reached me? Until the internet entered my life, in the mid-90’s, my knitting was a very lonely business. And would I have had the wit to let her change me?

I’m sorry for the gap. There’s nothing wrong, exactly. I had hoped that my bold ventures into the Western Isles and then to Wimbledon would restore me to youthful vigour, but that hasn’t happened. I am droopier than ever, and not knitting at all.

I am going to Strathardle next week, with my cats and James and Cathy and their daughters – their son Alistair being about to plunge into his new, postgraduate job. Maybe that will do the trick.

Here, at least, is a cruise picture for you, taken at Tarbert on the island of Harris, after supper one night. Paradise.

That was the only place where we actually docked – otherwise we were at anchor, and went ashore in the tender. That was easily enough managed, but meant that we had to stay ashore until the tender came back. I gave it a miss, sometimes. I am especially sorry to have thus skipped Dunvegan Castle, on Skye, on the way back.

But on Tarbert, I walked ashore and visited a mill where the weaving of tweed was being demonstrated, rather boring, and took these pictures of our dear boat on the way back:

We saw lots of yachts, everywhere, but only one other cruise ship, at Tobermory on Mull. It wasn’t big-big-big like the ones my husband used to enjoy collecting pictures of towering over Venice, but big enough, several hundred passengers. We all felt very happy with our choice as we left it behind after lunch.

I’ve put my name on a waiting list for the two Majestic cruises I would fancy for next year. And, of course, I can go in 2020 if I feel sufficiently sprightly. That doesn’t, at the moment, seem very likely.

Moorecat, you’re right, the whole point of Pointless is the rapport – that’s not entirely the mot juste, but neither is "tension" – between the two presenters. While I wait, perhaps I should take up a soap opera again. My day lacks a focal point.

Thank you, Crochet66, for the assurance that Pointless will be back. I didn’t think of the BBC Frequently Asked Questions page. I actually resorted to Twitter – if the President of the United States can communicate with us that way, why not Armstrong and Osman? But I didn’t get very far.

And, PixieMum, thank you for the tip about the Knitting and Crochet cruise (comment, yesterday). I rushed off in great excitement to look it up – but, alas! the Ventura is one of those great big cruise ships, and I am dead set against them. As I am against bobbles.

My dream knitting cruise would be a distinctly smallish ship, setting sail from Edinburgh, (hey! we could highjack the Royal Yacht!) for Norway, the Faroes, Iceland, and Lerwick. I didn’t book another Majestic cruise until I had experienced the first one, and now it’s too late for a single cabin on what I would choose for next year: their new “wilderness” cruise to the upper left-hand corner of the Scottish mainland. Noble Caledonian (whose ships are not grotesquely big) circumnavigate Sicily – but this year’s circumnavigation departs on the day of an unmissable family wedding, and if they’re going to do it again next year, they haven’t announced plans yet.

So I have nowhere to go, at the moment.

I have no knitting news to report (indeed, have done no knitting) except to say that you mustn’t miss the latest Fruity Knitting, where the guest is Meg herself.

On the cruise, I got around the heel of Archie’s second sock. He came to lunch on Monday and I completely forgot to have him try on the first one. He’s now in Greece, with the rest of his family. I think, when I pull myself together, I’ll polish off that sock before I go back to the Calcutta Cup vest.

I got a leaflet through the door this morning about some of the attractions of the Festival Fringe – one of them being a “conversation” with one of the Birmingham Six who now, I gather, makes his living going around complaining. I’d like to be there, but it’s at noon on the day when Archie and I are going to see “Waiting for Godot” in the evening – am I strong enough? The pub bombings happened while we lived in Birmingham. I am sure the Six were improperly convicted, not quite so sure that they were innocent.

I know this isn’t what you’re here to read about, but: my quiz programme has vanished from the television schedules. All old ladies have a favourite quiz programme. I read somewhere once that the Queen shares my fondness for this one – Pointless, it’s called. Apart from anything else, it gives structure to my aimless days. Whatever else I am or (more likely) am not doing, I sit down at 5:15 with my knitting, to watch Pointless.

It hasn’t been on recently because all the air time was needed for tennis and football. And then, yesterday, suddenly and with no explanation, there was a different quiz in its place. The BBC website says only “No upcoming broadcasts” – you can’t get much more stark than that. And Googling, to my surprise, produces no answers or even comments.

I’m not much of a photographer, and fear my cruise pictures will disappoint. Also, I’ll need to figure out how to get some of them out of my telephone. Shandy, you’re right, about random groups of people – I fully expected that at least one of my fellow-passengers would be unbearable. But none were. Mr Majestic rang up the day after I got back, to say that I had left my falls alarm behind. (I had already realised that, and by now, he has sent it to me.) I told him the cruise had been wonderful, and that we had been a harmonious group. He said, Yes, the crew remarked on that.

I have since learned, from one of you, that the Skipper’s mother belongs to her knitting group. One doesn’t think of Skippers as having mothers – it’s a wonderful bit of small-world-ery.

There is an ad in the current Waitrose magazine for Viking Ocean Cruises. It says, “From the comfort of a stunning small ship that is home to just 930 guests…”

We spent a whole day anchored at Stornoway. (The seals mistook us for a genuine fishing boat and swam up close asking for tidbits. Their flippers, just below the surface, are unnervingly hand-like.) In the morning, we went ashore in the town, and in the afternoon a coach trip was laid on to the Callanish Stones and other points of historic interest. (We’re in Alice Starmore territory here.)

We were sitting over the remains of lunch, recovering from the one and revving ourselves up for the other, when the Engineer came along to clear the table. “You’re awfully quiet,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

Try saying that to 930 people, Rob.

Home again, safe and sound. I’m just touching base at the moment. I hope to be back in the saddle tomorrow evening. The cats are well, although my absence doesn't seem to have made them fonder of each other; quite the contrary.

The cruise was wonderful. It is sad to think that we 12 will never assemble again. The Hebrides are beautiful, and fascinating. Dolphins skipped along beside our boat, clearly having fun. I’ll tell you about it in bits, with at least some pictures. I got quite a bit of knitting done.

Then, on Thursday, I went down to London, for Wimbledon on Friday, despite Federer’s loss. Rachel and I were there – you may have heard of it – for the longest semi-final in Wimbledon history, and the second-longest match of all. It was incredibly tedious. By the beginning of the fourth set, if not the ending of the third, all one wanted in the world was for it to end. The idiot calls of “Come on John” and “Come on Kevin” were joined by “Come on Somebody”. And, once, "Come on, chaps -- we want to see Rafa."

I wondered whether they would put the next match on at all – the one we all wanted to see. They did, at 8 p.m. or so, Nadal v Djokovic. Rachel and I stayed for three games, and saw the sort of tennis we had hoped to see all afternoon, sharp and intelligent and strategic. Then we went sadly home. They played until 11, and we watched it on television with our supper. I was too tired by then to grasp the finer points – who was serving, what the significance of the point. But I could see the beauty of the play.

I missed the end yesterday, due to the journey home. Rachel says it was one of the great matches, and, she hopes, as we tell the story in later years, it will gradually turn out that we saw all of it.

But I wanted to post this early today, before kick-off, to say how much I hope to see Kevin Anderson humiliated this afternoon – the Grinch who stole Wimbledon, the man single-handedly responsible for depriving me of the lifetime chance to see Federer play, and Nadal, and Djokovic.

A pleasant day, and the packing is getting on nicely. No parking permit, however. I tried the telephone number you sent, Shandy – comment, Tuesday. It got me through to a bemused young librarian BUT he knew the number I needed to phone. So thank you, and bless you, for that.

The real number, after an unnecessary amount of if-you-want-this-press-that (unnecessary, because no one except Shandy knows the number to ring in the first place) produced an intelligent human being who briskly looked up my car, using the number on the license plate, and said that the permit has been sent and if it doesn’t arrive tomorrow we can go get a temporary one.

Archie came to lunch, and was instructed in cat care. We hatched a plan wherein he will get a driving license and, assuming I am still alive, we will fly to Detroit and view that ruined city, including the places where I used to live: 2211 Virginia Park, 18214 and 17586 Parkside. It might be almost as interesting as Pompeii. We forgot that he was supposed to be there to help me with putting out the recycling. It’s a fortnightly job, and I think this time we can leave it.

The weather is still preposterously good, and the forecast is that it will continue. There was news last night that the heat – my dears, it’s over 80 – has caused problems on the railway. Something else to worry about. When I was first here, in the summer of 1953, the temperature was over 80 for a few days and England was prostrate.

As for knitting, the new grey yarn is here from Jamieson & Smith, and of course I realised when I met Maureen in Kathy’s Knits yesterday that I could have bought it there, for half the price. She sells exclusively British yarns, and has a good range from J&S. I went on with Archie’s socks. I’ve knit the heel flap and turned the heel and picked up the gusset stitches for the first one.

In the days when my husband and I went to London three or four times a year, I knit lots of socks. This time, for an alarming moment, I wondered if I had forgotten how to turn a heel. But no, I can still do it.

The new VK – the lace issue – arrived today, at first tossed aside in despair because the parking permit wasn’t included, but later thumbed through with some pleasure. There are some seriously good things in there. Had I but world enough and time…

And there’s a good article by Meg about designing shawls – except that it takes me back, yet again, to that troubling, anti-feminist, paragraph in the Knitter’s Almanac, about the pi-shawl. I understand that the radius of a circle is directly and constantly related to the circumference via Pythagoras’ theorem. I still don’t see why Elizabeth’s theorem is therefore right, although I am sure it is. (EZ: starting from the centre, cast on 9,; knit a round of YO, K1; 3 rounds plain; another increase round, 6 rounds plain. Each increase round doubles the number of stitches; then you knit twice as many rounds as before, before the next increase round.) (I’d understand if I were a man, according to EZ.)

I won’t post again until somewhere around the 11^th  or 12^th of July, home from the Hebrides.

Some steps forward, others back.

No parking permit – but I have had an answer to my distressed emails from a Real Human Being who says that I typed a number in wrong but she has tracked down my application and the new permit is in the post. So Helen and I took no action, including not phoning the number you provided, Shandy. We’ll hope for tomorrow.

I told her you were coming up for her mosaic lesson, and she said, It had better be good.

I paid the three parking tickets I had accumulated, and sent Archie and my friend G. the schedule of Cat Care. Archie is coming to lunch tomorrow to be instructed in the finer points.

And this morning I met MaureenfromFargo for coffee, an old friend. She was fresh from a week’s knitting course on Shetland, about to fly back to Fargo. She’ll be here again for Shetland Wool Week, and we will (insh’Allah) meet again. She is the one who has actually knit the Museum Sweater, with every lozenge different.

But I still haven’t packed. I must do that tomorrow, while I’ve still got a day in hand.

Here’s a puzzle for you, from Helen. You (collectively) have answered so many questions. What does this mean:

She found it unlabeled in a dusty museum on the edge of Jerash. Could it have any religious significance?

Still no Parking Permit. Helen has taken the car away to a place where you don’t have to pay to park. A housing estate somewhere. Will it survive? 

Your advice is excellent, Chloe: but there is no paperwork. If they sent me a reminder, I never saw it. I renewed (and paid) on-line on the 17^th. I cannot find a telephone number on the website. I sent an email expressing agitation and distress yesterday, and another today. I won’t tell them I’m going away.

Today I had an Italian lesson, and a hair cut. The new hairdresser is about ½ mile away (my former one has retired) and I walked both ways. It nearly did for me. I think I am weaker than I was in January in Palermo.

Tomorrow I must resume list-making – starting with paying the three parking tickets I have accumulated.

The skirt arrived from Toast, but not the yarn from Jamieson & Smith. Lerwick is a long way away, even from Edinburgh. So this evening I resumed knitting Archie’s socks – not a bad idea, anyway, to get a renewed grip on what will be my cruise knitting. (With a 60^th birthday pair for Rachel to follow, if I finish Archie’s.)

The Green Bean Relish is quiet. I am far enough along in fermentation not to worry about that, although I am looking forward to making another fermented gardiniera. That one is a fairly lively ferment, but involves a lot of preliminary chopping.

The Majestic Line (who operate the cruise) rang up this afternoon to see how I was getting on. That was thoughtful of them. There was an article about them in the Sunday Times day before yesterday – not as good as the article in the Financial Times which started me off on this two or three years ago, but very laudatory.

The journalist said that her fellow-passengers ranged in age from 30 to 70, and went for two-hour walks in the rain. That would make me 15 years older than the oldest, and quite unable to keep up. I am hoping for gentler walks for old ladies – if only from the pier to the internet café. The FT article mentioned a retired High Court judge in her nineties.

There was a most promising envelope in the mail this morning, from the City of Edinburgh. It proved to be about rubbish collections – garden rubbish, at that, which I don’t have. And I got another parking ticket, despite the note on the windscreen.

I couldn’t easily find a telephone number for the Parking Permit People. I sent them a distressed-old-lady email. Their original email promises the permit within seven working days – that brings us to tomorrow. Meanwhile I am parked in a paying space again, covered until 12:30 tomorrow, at considerable expense.

Meanwhile I have heard from Jamieson & Smith, that my dark grey yarn has been dispatched; and from Toast, from whom I unnecessarily, this morning, ordered a denim skirt which was on sale. So promptness is possible.

I have divided Alexander’s vest at the armholes, cast on the steeks, and am moving forward. However, I have run out of dark grey yarn earlier than I expected. If I knit any more this evening, it will have to be socks.

I made a list this morning of today’s to-do’s. Many of the items very simple, like Wash up and Tidy the kitchen. It is very soothing to the agitated mind to have a list to cross things off of. I haven’t done all of them, but most. And I must get out there soon with more water (not on list) – it has actually been hot in Edinburgh today, and plants are suffering.

Fermentation

I haven’t abandoned it. The guardiniera was delicious, now finished. I’ve still got kimchi in the refrigerator, some homemade, some store-boughten. The fermented Good King Henry tasted OK, but was as tough as old fermented boots so I threw it away. I have made a successful hot sauce from some fermented chilli paste.

But there has been nothing bubbling on the counter lately, so today I made a batch of Thai-Inspired Green Bean Relish from “Fiery Ferments” by Kirsten and Christopher Shockey. Highly recommended – the book, I mean. Too soon to speak about the Green Bean Relish.

Another idle day – a day wasted, because it was a beautiful one. I must at least carry water out to my poor plants this evening. I’ve got a little bunch of sweet peas in a jam jar on the kitchen table, and am looking forward to a small dish of strawberries before I leave for the Western Isles. Something to show for my toil.

I’m all set for the armhole-division on Alexander’s Calcutta Cup sweater. I think I’ll try to get that done this evening, too. I need another ball of dark grey from Jamieson & Smith, and have at last (at least) ordered that today.

I am in something of a panic about getting away. (But, goodness, if I could leave for Sicily on the 1^st of January, anything should be possible.) I meant to start packing today, but didn’t. Tomorrow. I did write out a Care Plan for Cats. I’m in something of a panic about them, too. Responsibility is divided between Archie and a dear friend – Helen is heading off to Mt Pelion – and I am afraid they will fall between the cracks.

I’m sure I’ve told you before that Rachel was born early in the day, 60 years ago, and I was taken down to a ward, and someone came around selling newspapers, and I bought the Express. I still have it. The horoscope for my new daughter started off: “Not a day you will remember…”

Fully worthy of the Delphic Oracle.

And rather odd, given that 1 in 365 of the Express’ thousands of readers would have been celebrating a birthday that day.

On the whole, today has been more minus than plus, here. The mother of my beloved cleaning woman died suddenly and unexpectedly, in Rumania. Daniella is going home tomorrow and doesn’t know when she’ll be back. I depend on her for almost everything. Can I get to the Hebrides without her?

The parking permit wasn’t in today’s post. If it doesn’t turn up on Monday, I’ll try to phone them.

Knitting has advanced slightly. I’ve reached the central three rows of the current Fair Isle band – the division for the armholes will take place on the second or third of them. Tomorrow, or perhaps even this evening.

One of the reasons I have been advancing so slowly is that I have been watching something called Staircase on Netflix. I thought until today that it was an utterly brilliant mock documentary, about a murder trial. The credits at the end give Jean-Xavier Lestrade as “writer and director” which seemed to indicate that it was fiction. But today I google’d – and it’s not. It gives one furiously to think about Pilate’s question: What is truth?

Perdita is fine.

All well – at least, as well as all ever is in this vale of tears. Don’t miss the preceding Stop Press, and thanks to all who have already commented on it.

Katie, I agree, if we go ahead with this at all, Murrayfield had better see the whole collection. I’m pretty sure Cathy gave me back her daughter Kirsty’s Christening shawl, which shows the 2000 Cup, and I’m pretty sure I know where it is. Alexander has an all-over Fair Isle (?’06) which, even holding his breath, he can no longer wear, but I’m sure he’s got it. Ketki has the ’08, and it still fits fine. ’10 was a draw – I knit a hat for James Miles the Younger, with half the Cup. He lost it, but a photograph exists.

You’ll notice the pattern of even-numbered years. We never win at Twickenham.

As for the on-going problems: still no Resident’s Parking Permit, but my windscreen note is still working, and has saved me £30 at least since midday yesterday.

The vet has diagnosed Perdita with nothing worse than sloppy grooming. I was braced for terminal cancer, and Helen – who drove us down there and back – for a cyst. The affected area has been shaved and it is nice to see again how God maps out the design for such a cat on its skin.

I set upon the to-do list with the hoped-for vigour this morning. Everything is done except for paying the parking fines – I hesitate, in case I get another one – and writing out a detailed programme of cat care for my absence. I should be able to manage both of those in the remaining week.

But I haven’t done any knitting.

Tomorrow is Rachel’s 60^th birthday. If ever a day was the First Day of the Rest of My Life, it was the 23^rd of June, 1958.

Stop press:

Here is a link to a tweet from Ketki with a reply from Murrayfield itself:

https://twitter.com/Jaktmilesk/status/1007925572943728640

I was wrong: the interviewer did ask Penelope Jardine about rumpty tumpty with Muriel Spark –presumably having warned her of the question before the cameras rolled. And it was phrased rather more discretely. Miss Jardine laughed and said, in effect, I know what you’re asking, and, no, there was nothing like that.

“Boston marriage” is a new phrase to me, and one I am glad to add to my repertoire. Thank you, Mary Lou.

The Resident’s Parking Permit didn’t turn up today, to my huge disappointment. I took the advice of several friends and neighbours and moved the car back into a resident’s parking space and put a note on the windscreen. I seem to have got away with it, so far.

So tomorrow I had better get back to my to-do list. I could knock off taxing the car and paying the parking fines and paying an electricity bill and making an appt to have my hair done, all well within an hour, if I set myself to it.

Perdita has a dr’s appt late tomorrow afternoon. That is a huge worry. She has a rough patch of fur on her back, beneath which seems to be a lump. She doesn’t seem ill or uncomfortable. Can a vet make her better? Or just charge me a lot of money for making her worse? It will be hard, after all,  to concentrate on the to-do list.

Knitting

I have knit a whole round wrong, on Alexander’s Calcutta Cup vest. I don’t think it will show up much, if I carry calmly on. The lozenge, where the mistake is, is the right shape, and the “X” of the OXO is unaffected.

The main feature of the new Fruity Knitting is an interview with the Italian team behind Myak. They sell Tibetan yak yarn and cashmere, dyed and spun in Italy and mixed, in some cases, with silk. It’s no use adding random wonderful yarns to stash, however.

Andrew and Andrea say they won't be back for three weeks -- they're working on something special. 

I hope you all realised last night that I wasn’t here because family was. Alistair himself – by now, presumably, a graduate of Glasgow University, as I am – came over, and Helen came down with her two resident sons (Archie and Fergus), and we all had a rather good takeaway around the dining room table.

After a week or two to catch his breath, Alistair (whose first class degree is in computer science) will start a rather good job with somebody I’ve never heard of, doing something incomprehensible. He said he was thinking of saving up the deposit to buy a flat (in Glasgow) so that he could have a cat. A grandson after my own heart.

Meanwhile I still haven’t got my Resident’s Parking Permit, and life is entirely centred around keeping the metre fed and moving the car occasionally. Surely tomorrow. A day’s metre-feeding costs almost as much as a day’s parking ticket, but feels more virtuous.

I’m excited to hear, Shandy, that you’re coming up in August for a mosaic class with Helen. Surely we can meet? I am getting confused about months and dates – she was here a moment ago, in a state of some agitation about the mislaying of a load of supplies (tesserae?) on their way from Athens to Pelion via Volos for a class she will be teaching very soon. She’ll get her tesserae, and I’ll get my Resident’s Parking Permit, and we’ll think about August.

Knitting: I’ve finished the peerie and embarked on the next Fair Isle band of Alexander’s Calcutta Cup sweater. This is the one that will be interrupted in the middle by the start of the armhole holes.

Sex: Like you, Kay, I hugely admire Mrs Roosevelt. I firmly believe – laugh if you will, remembering that I am 84 – that profound and loving and long-lasting friendship is possible between same-sex couples without necessarily involving  rumpty-tumpty. If the author of White Houses wants to persuade me that it was otherwise, between Mrs Roosevelt and what’s-her-name, she’ll have to persuade me, not just dump the “fact” on the first few pages.

Today is, or near enough, Muriel Spark’s 100^th birthday. A commemorative programme on BBC Four tonight will include a rare interview with Penelope Jardine, with whom MS lived in Italy for many years. I don’t suppose the interviewer will ask about rumpty-tumpty. I’ll take my knitting and go off and watch that now; perhaps tell you about it tomorrow.

There really is nothing to report today. The entire time has been spent worrying about (and paying for) the car. Helen nobly went off somewhere this afternoon to see if she could fetch the new Resident’s Permit home for me, but it turned out the office has been moved to Corstorphine. (I’ve heard of it.) It’s probably no use going tomorrow, wherever Corstorphine is, because by then – surely – the new permit will be in the mail.

Archie has emboldened me to believe I’ll be able to pay by mobile telephone and bank card. Coins have run out. I’ll have to do that before 8:30 tomorrow morning. If successful, that’ll take me to lunchtime. And the new permit could be in tomorrow’s mail.

Archie and a dear friend and I went to lunch at a humble but delicious Korean restaurant over near the University and the Central Mosque. I don’t think their kimchi was quite as good as mine, however.

What a pleasure it is to anticipate a holiday with no concerns for passports or currency or language! Preparations (largely complete) have been suspended, however, until I get my Resident’s Parking Permit.

I am tempted to write you a whole blog entry about SEX. I recently bought the well-reviewed White Houses for my Kindle and the first few pages have made me cross. Maybe soon, but I’m too tired tonight.

Now I’ll go knit for a while.

The smooth progress of life had a bit of a setback today. I nipped down to Tesco’s this morning – and found not one but two parking tickets on my windscreen. My Resident’s Parking Permit had expired. If they sent me a reminder, I never got it. Or never opened it.

I have renewed, on-line. I wonder if I could get away with a note to that effect on the windscreen? Probably not. Metred parking around here is terribly expensive. I have poured enough coins in to get me through to noon tomorrow. Mustn’t forget. And I must also pay the fines. And, of course, once all that is settled, get back to the things that should be done before I leave, such as taxing the car.

I’ve done a bit of knitting – I’m half-way through the next peerie. What I did achieve was to sit down at the kitchen table with Calcutta Cup vest, swatch-scarf, tape measure, and Fair Isle vest instructions from Meg and Alice Starmore and Kate Davies. Later I added EZ’s original EPS, in the Knitting Workshop.

I fired up an old computer and persuaded it to show me some of Meg's Fair Isle Vest video -- enough for her to express in numbers a desired measurement from underarm to shoulder (9 1/2"). Then it pegged out.

Needless to say, the experts all contradict each other, and my gauge measurements came out different each time. And nobody would tell me how wide to make the shoulders. A bit narrow will be fine – narrow shoulders can be bulked out with armhole ribbing. But the thing one absolutely doesn’t want is any drape over the shoulder blade. I measured an old, moth-eaten, hand-knit vest of my husband’s and decided to aim for four inches each side.

KD’s Stronachlachar, high on my hoped-for list, droops over the shoulders in just the way mentioned. But that’s deliberate, meant for a woman, and looks fine. I watched her give a talk about “Handywoman” yesterday, wearing Stronachlachar. But it wouldn’t do for Alexander.

So I think I’ve done all the maths – certainly enough to be moving forward with. I had help:

Tonight’s computer tragedy is that it won’t play Meg’s Fair Isle Vest video. I’ve wasted valuable time trying. Is this another feature of the upgrade?

I’ve finished the third Fair Isle band of Alexander’s Calcutta Cup vest, and have decided to divide for the v-neck half-way through the next one. It is time to listen to Meg’s gentle advice; very frustrating not to be able to. I think, by good luck rather than good management, the v-neck will begin in the middle of an X rather than an O.

I am not entirely happy with the amount of yarn available. My one mission at the EYF market, as far as I can remember, was to get yarn for this vest. And so I did – but what I now seem to have is a considerable quantity of a mid-grey which doesn’t figure in the vest, the dark grey which I do use in every Fair Isle band about to run out, and a couple of other colours in a precarious state. I’d better order some more. Nothing worse than worrying about running out – except, perhaps, actually running out. Fortunately, in Fair Isle, you can change dye lots with impunity.

Here’s the vest:

Here’s a dead cat (not):

There is an interesting post from Kate Davies today about her forthcoming book “Handywoman” – about her stroke and how it has transformed her life. I’ve pre-ordered, as I may have said.  The pre-order also includes a pattern for hare-and-tortoise gauntlets. They’re good, but I don’t think I’ll bother downloading. My HALFPINT list already stretches out to the crack of doom.

Non-knit

I didn’t accomplish anything today, I don’t think. The new shoes I ordered for my cruise have arrived, and they’re blissfully comfortable. Are we all – the other 10 or 11 passengers, I mean – fitting ourselves out with new wardrobes?

Poor Glasgow! The last time the College of Art had a bad fire it turned out, I think, to have been started by an electrical fault in some equipment a student was using (and left on) to prepare for the end-of-year show. And it’s that time of year again. This fire sounds much worse.