There is effectively nothing to report. I felt thoroughly weak today, with no appetite and some diarrhoea.  (It is somewhat alarming to discover that I have it often enough that I have finally mastered the spelling.) Neither is a symptom of Covid, so that’s something. 

I spent much of the day in bed worrying about the state of the world. Archie came in the morning, and managed to get me around the garden. He says his cousin Alistair (James’ and Cathy’s son) is coming to them for Christmas. Helen and Archie will drive to Falkirk to get him. He’ll stay one night, and take a taxi all the way back late on Christmas day.. Archie also says his father is staying in Greece (as we knew) – he doesn’t have much choice, now. But if it turns out that the new variant of the virus is more virulent as well as more infectious, he will come back willy nilly, with the possible sacrifice of his job.

 

Rachel phoned. Their Christmas is altered, too. At least they won’t be carrying Christmas dinner down to their pop-up pagoda in the garden. Their daughter’s boy-friend, who lives with them, now can’t get home to his own family, so they’ll have four for Christmas dinner which is not too bad. Others of her children will drop in for a quick drink in the garden. There will be other uses for the pagoda as winter progresses.

 

I’ve done no knitting, but perhaps I can knock off a couple of rows this evening until I get tired enough to go back to bed.

 

I just looked it up – Google (who never errs) says that the winter solstice is tomorrow, at 10.02 a.m. I thought we had to wait until Tuesday. So that’s good news.

 

Tamar, you are right that the history of the celebration of these things is an interesting one. I believe the former Scottish obsession with the New Year was a product of the Presbyterian suppression of Christmas. I think something similar happened in Soviet Russia. We northerners need to celebrate the return of light, one way or another. At some point the British year, or at least some aspects of it, ended on March 25 – which is the Feast of the Annunciation and also, as near as dammit, the vernal equinox. When we switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar (I hope I’ve got that the right way around) it meant we had to skip ahead 12 days. People got really agitated, believing that their lives had been shortened by that many days. And that is why, to this day, the British Income Tax year ends on April 5. And there are still places in Scotland where the Old New Year is observed.

 

We are all in a tizzy, here in Europe, about the new, fast-spreading version of the corona virus. Helen’s husband David was wise to cancel his Christmas visit – there would have been a real possibility that he couldn’t get back to Greece. Everybody is cutting us off. Channel tunnel trains are suspended. Their son Mungo escaped from London last night, along with many others – there were six hours between the announcement and the lockdown, giving many the chance to escape and spread the virus as far as possible. He is now here (I think) and Helen rightly says that all of them must stay away from me (except for walks outdoors) for a fortnight or so.

 

Sherman Hill Knits (comment yesterday) – I can’t tell you more about the quiz, yet. Each party – that is, each Zoom link, containing however many people --  thinks of five questions (harder than it sounds), and we take turns asking them, and then mark ourselves. Much laughter, but we take it deadly seriously. I think I’ve got my questions ready but of course must not reveal them.

 

And as for knitting, I am getting on fine with the centre square of the new hap:

 

I’m pleased with the fabric and the colour.

 

I’ve finished “The Honourable Schoolboy. It’s not very cheerful. Le Carre is never very cheerful, in fact, is he? Although “Little Drummer Girl” has what might be considered a happy ending, at least.

 

What is to become of us? Christmas has effectively been cancelled, including cross-border traffic between Scotland and England. Apart from misery to many thousands of others, that strands Helen and David’s son Mungo in London; and James and Cathy’s son Alistair in Falkirk. I think David had already decided not to come back from Thessaloniki for Christmas. I’m feeling rather pleased with myself for having chosen a solitary Christmas a fortnight ago. At least no disappointment today.

 

There are hints in today’s papers that we should just forget the whole thing and have it at Easter. I had long ago realised that Christmas is no longer a Christian festival, rather a celebration of light returning. Perhaps that’s all it ever was. Even so, the idea of moving it horrifies.

 

And Archie has just phoned to say he doesn’t think he ought to come in my house any more, although he still could come to supervise my morning walk.

 

Rachel already has elaborate plans to entertain all of her family, in stages, on Christmas day, in the garden – including, I think, Christmas dinner itself. She and Ed live in the top half of a terraced house, so it will be inconvenient. They have bought a pop-up pagoda (if I’ve got that right) to provide at least some shelter.

 

And we are planning, again like many thousands of others, a family Zoom quiz. I’ve got to think of three questions. I’ve got two.

 

Knitting

 

I made a good start on the hap last night – 60 rows. It starts with one stitch, and increases by one every row. Obviously, things will slow down. I did a few more rows this morning, while recovering from my Italian lesson, and mean to do some more this evening. Some of you wrote, most kindly, to congratulate me on the colours of the Evendoon (pic yesterday) – I deserve no credit. They’re Kate Davies’ colours (and they are, indeed, good). I’ve just been painting by numbers.

 

Here are the colours of the hap:

 

Elaine wrote to me last night and told me what to do about my Apple storage problem: namely, go into iPad settings and delete the apps I never use. And it worked. I am inseparable from my iPad, and feel stressed and anxious when we are in separate rooms. Even so, I was surprised at how many of its apps I actually use. Nevertheless, there were enough others, some with mega-bytes attached, that it made a difference, doing away with them.

 

Reading

 

There is a good appreciation of John Le Carre in today’s Financial Times. If I understand it rightly, it suggests that “The Honourable Schoolboy” is his masterpiece, and then doesn’t list it in a box on the page giving his five best. Again, “The Little Drummer Girl” doesn’t get much space. It’s the only one with a female protagonist, and the author of the appreciative article doesn’t think that she’s very convincing. She convinces me. But what a compliment to the author to have there be such doubt.

 

I’m nearly finished with “The Honourable Schoolboy”. I hope the worst of the violence is over.

 

Here we are again. Helen got me around the garden. An old friend rang up to see if I was still alive, although he didn’t phrase it quite like that, and therefore worth sending a Christmas card to. It was nice to talk to him. He used to live in our garage, long ago. And the yarn came from Uradale Farm:

 

The print-out of the Gudrun’s Hansel hap isn’t in the pattern file where it should be, so I printed it out again. The first problem is that the ball-band says 3.5 mm needles, and Gudrun wants 5mm. But mercifully the centre square, where we start, is knit corner to corner so I will be able to make my own guess (4mm) and see whether I like the fabric.

 

While I was in photography mode, I snapped the Evendoon:

(And that one got through although the others didn't. I think this time the problem is connected with "iCloud storage - see below. )

 

I am full of startitis-type enthusiasm for the hap, so will do that this evening. And probably press on with it.

 

Life

 

You have got me worried about shingles. I know it’s thoroughly unpleasant. Am I right in thinking that you don’t seed to be exposed to chicken pox again, to get it? It can rise spontaneously from one’s bloodstream? I will ask a Medical Person about vaccination if I ever see one again.

 

The old friend (see above), who lives in London, says that he and everyone he knows has had an email from the NHS saying don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you, about Covid vaccination. And of course some oldies are already getting it, down there. I wish we had some sort of notification like that here.

 

I’m having trouble getting email on my iPad. I think it’s something to do with a message I keep getting and ignoring about how I’m running out of “storage”. I tried to put it right and got through to Apple and changed my password but then they wanted the security number on my Visa card and they didn’t have the right Visa card and I couldn’t figure out how to change it. That probably dates from the time I had that bank scam and Alexander thot it would be prudent to change my card. Archie will have to deal with all this next week, and meanwhile I’ll have to use this computer for email.

 

The US east coast snow sounds serious. It will be interesting to see if it does come here. My Oberlin friend who writes a private blog is completely snowed in (Binghampton NY). Usually she just sits and waits for young people to knock on her door and offer to dig her out, for a price, This time there is too much snow for them to get to the door.

 

I haven’t done any Italian homework for tomorrow, and I am inclined to feel, to hell with it. Christmas and the winter solstice are almost as bad when one does nothing as when one toils for six weeks.

 

Reading

 

I am finding “The Honourable Schoolboy” grimmer and more violent than I expected. Laos, Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge. It’s too late to stop now. Maybe “Alice in Wonderland” next.

 

Even less to report. It was a nice day out there. Helen couldn’t get here, and I, in cowardly fashion, seized the opportunity to stay indoors. Not much knitting, either. Nor did the yarn arrive for the hap.

 

Oh, dear. I ought to be able to do better than that. My last grocery delivery arrived (=last, before Christmas) with cranberries, so tomorrow’s job is to make the sauce.

 

I’m getting on fine with “The Honourable Schoolboy” although it remains rather dense. I never attempted “Little Drummer Girl” as a movie – did I know it was one? – although I do remember it as a not-good-at-all TV adaptation. Anyway, Mary Lou (and anybody else) – do read it. It’s an exciting read, and the most even-handed Israel-Palestine treatment I have ever encountered.

 

I’m glad to hear that shingles vaccination is possible. I didn’t know that. We had a Christmas at Loch Fyne once – the James Mileses from Sydenham were there – where almost everybody got sick with the norovirus (including me), and just as we were getting ourselves organized for departure on the final morning, Alexander trumped us all by hiking up his shirt and revealing that he had shingles. He had a number of uncomfortable weeks to follow.

 

It’s very odd, at this time of year when normally there is no news and all the reporters have gone home, to have both Brexit and Covid to keep us on tenterhooks.

 

I have gone on delving into the archives, and was distinctly taken aback, last night, to discover how sprightly I was in late ’17.  I don’t think anything I can do would make much difference, but I mean to try a dry January again this year (like last), as a last throw of the dice.

And -- I forgot to say -- I am sorry to hear that eastern USofA is submerged in snow. It usually gets here about two weeks later -- in time for the New Year, therefore, 

 

All well. Sorry about yesterday. I felt indescribably feeble. No knitting, no blog. But I got around the garden, with Archie; and again this morning, with Helen. And the second Evendoon sleeve is progressing well. I’d like to finish it (the sleeve, at least) before embarking on the baby hap – the yarn still isn’t here, but should be, any moment now. The Evendoon, even with two sleeves, will need a neck edging as well as finishing-finishing. We shall see.

 

Covid

 

Thank you for your comfort. I’m sure, really, that they won’t forget me…

 

The radio seemed to suggest yesterday that Scotland will run out of vaccine once it has finished doing care home residents and staff, who are quite properly second. First were NHS staff – wee Hamish’s father Manaba, who works for the NHS, has had his, with no discomfort to speak of. I can wait. I’d really prefer Oxford/AstraZeneca anyway. (I didn’t get a reminder this year to come in for my flu vaccine. But that could be because the NHS is one step ahead of me. I got the injection, early on, from my nearest chemist (=drugstore); and they probably told the doctor.)

 

Reading

 

“The Honourable Schoolboy” is slightly hard work, which is just what’s wanted. I don’t think I’ve read it before. There was a list in the Times yesterday of Le Carre’s “ten best” which didn’t even mention “Little Drummer Girl”. There aren’t many authors to whom that could happen. Like Trollope without “Barchester Towers”, at least in my opinion. There was a leader (=editorial) that same day, which did mention it. I think perhaps I’ll re-read it, when I finish this one.

 

Virtually nothing to report. I don’t think I’ve done any knitting since I was here last. Certainly no photography. C. came and got me around the garden. It was another rather nice day, for December.

 

Comments: Chloe and Jean, my memory of the polio vaccine (not to be relied upon) is that it started out as a drop of something on a lump of sugar. That would have been in New Jersey, perhaps just after the war.

 

It is interesting that people down south have appointments for their covid vaccinations already. I’m more than happy to wait, but there’s always a nagging anxiety connected with having heard nothing. Do they know that I’m 87? And here all alone?

 

Degrees of separation

 

I have been floundering around the last couple of days, wondering what to read next. Another Pym, perhaps? A degree of toughness, but low on violence, is what’s wanted. God has answered the question, rather sharply, and I am now well embarked on The Honourable Schoolboy. I’ve read most of Le Carre, but that one not in the last two years (I’ve kept lists) and not on the Kindle (Amazon would remind me) – so possibly not at all.

 

One of David Cornwell’s sons is a mosaicist. He has written an article for the journal Andamento (what does that mean?) which Helen edits. She has been corresponding with him about the biographical paragraph which will accompany the article, and had this email from him yesterday:

 

Helen

Not an excuse to use often - he wouldn't have let it interrupt him - but my father passed away last night and things a bit crazy at the minute, 

Tim

 

I told her to write back and say, He was a great man. But she knows Tim only as a mosaicist and thinks it would be embarrassing to reveal that she knows who his father is. I think he wouldn’t notice in the general fuss,  but she’s the Englishwoman, I’m just an American. I mean to print it out, anyway, and insert in a copy of something. I’m not sure we have anything on paper here. “The Little Drummer Girl” (my fave) and perhaps “The Constant Gardener” are available in Kirkmichael, though.

 

However, it certainly means that I’m only three degrees away from John Le Carre. The same degree from Evelyn Waugh, also due to Helen who knew his son Auberon and also a granddaughter, ??Daisy. And I’m only two from Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, through my own efforts. (See this blog for January, 2018.) That’s pretty well late-20^th-century literature covered.

 

The first two news bulletins I heard last night, didn’t even mention his real name. Perhaps there was a late-night editor on duty who didn’t know that he wasn’t named John le Carre.

 

Another day. The second sleeve of the Evendoon has been somewhat advanced. Moorecat, you’re absolutely right that I need a bowl on my lap. I mean to use my wooden salad bowl, which is right there beside my chair. It is full of little bits of things – twists of yarn from former projects which I must now harden my heart and throw away. Meg says somewhere that she never throws anything away (any yarn, she means) – that’s a line it’s hard to forget. But completely irrelevant here. I'll get that done tomorrow.

 

I still haven’t taken a picture for you. The light goes so early.

 

Helen came, with her dog Farouk, and we got around the garden in a gentle rain. He’s a nice dog.

 

Language: we lived in Glasgow in Early Married Life – all four children were born there, in fact. In those days, workmen used to set forth in the morning with cans containing tea leaves and sugar. At lunch time they would knock on somebody’s door and ask for hot water. (We spent the academic year 1960-61 at Smith College in Massachusetts, and were interested to learn that workmen brought along their own electric percolators.) This happened once when my mother was staying with us, and I happened to be out. She told me about it afterwards. She had had to send the man away because she couldn’t understand what he wanted. I explained. She said, I thought maybe that was it.

 

Brexit is getting exciting, in these final few days. Helen is anti-EU, after all her years in Greece.

 

And Covid is fairly exciting, too. I have no idea when I might expect to get vaccinated. The website of my GP’s practice is no help.

 

Little to report. Helen came, and we got to the corner shop – not quite as far as a circuit of the garden, by my guess, but nearly, and perhaps enough to save me from seizing up. I moved on down the second sleeve of the Evendoon --- twirling it around is indeed a nuisance by now. I had to stop to wind a skein.

 

I had a good Italian lesson, talking about Christmas. My tutor lived in Edinburgh for three years and knows all about darkness and damp, but she always went home for Christmas and knows nothing about Christmas pudding. I am going to skip it this year, as I’ve said, but I regard it as the heart of the whole procedure, flaming brandy and all. Maybe I can find recipes and a picture for her.

 

Comments

 

Joni, I was awfully glad to hear that Franklin’s closure class is still in the repertoire. If only Craftsy (or Interweave) would take it up! And of course your’re right, Mary Lou – if I want to knit something with a zip in it, I could pay someone to put it in. There’s a wonderful Edinburgh charity (on North Castle Street? – beyond my current range, anyway) where people sell their handiwork. The charity consists in the fact that the premises, in the city centre, and the staff are provided. All the proceeds go to the people who make the things. When I knit a Christening dress (Amedro’s pattern) for a grandchild once, I went there to get someone to make a slip to go under it, and I’m sure they could provide a zipper-setter.

 

Jean(fromcornwall), thank you for your praise of my tape-measure-location. I wish I could think of how to do the same for my  needle gauge. I know where it is at the moment, as it happens, but that’s the tool which most often escapes me. I’ve got several; I can usually find one of them. But there’s one I particularly like, and it’s particularly elusive.

 

Mary Lou, thank you for the link to the Hopkins broadcast. It took me straight there. I doubt if I could make it work on the iPad, so I’ll have to bring the knitting in here.

 

Thank you, all, for the comments about Swedish and Norwegian. It sounds as if the languages are no more different than English and modern Scots (which can be pretty incomprehensible but is never, or rarely, given credit for being more than a dialect). The more I work on Italian, the more Spanish sounds almost within grasp. It’s a fascinating area of study and thought.

 

Another day of great weakness, but Helen got me around the garden. She says the latest sourdough loaf tastes good.

 

And Uradale Farm on Shetland says that my hap-yarn order is on the way. So it behoves me to get as much Evendoon done as possible before it turns up. I made some progress down the second sleeve today.

 

Kate Davies has sent us club-members a pattern for a cosy hoodie. It’s fastened, however, with a zipper, which rules it out for me. That’s a skill I’ve never mastered, and by now I’ve stopped trying. Didn’t Franklin once offer a class on fastenings? If so, it’s slid out of his repertoire.

 

Miscellaneous

 

I’ve mentioned that I sometimes re-read this blog, of an evening. Yesterday I discovered to my surprise, in December, 2018, this reference to an article about “Christmas past” on Shetland in which they celebrate not Christmas but the solstice itself, starting a week beforehand (that would be next Thursday); the celebration lasts a month. There are lots of trolls about, this time of year, but the article has tips for warding them off.

 

I keep meaning to mention that Arne and Carlos told us recently that, at home by themselves, Carlos speaks Swedish and Arne speaks Norwegian. That scarcely sounds as if they are two separate languages at all.

 

I’m sorry I missed Melvin Bragg on Hopkins, Mary Lou. Maybe I can dig it out of the BBC web pages. (I heard him last night, as I was falling asleep. His voice sounded funny, as if his teeth didn’t fit, but I can’t remember what they were talking about.) Hopkins was revered by students of literature when I was at Oberlin, so I knew his name, at least. But I didn’t know he was a Roman Catholic, let alone a Jesuit priest, until I got to Glasgow. His was a desperately sad – and heroic – life.

 

Peggy, yes, that’s a tape measure on the rail of the Aga. I don’t know quite how that happened. That’s where the tape measure belongs, and I always know where it is. If only things were so arranged for everything else in the house!

 

Another December day. Another sourdough loaf, without a cat:

 

I haven’t had a report from Helen yet – I gave it to her, after our walk – but it looks all right. I don’t normally keep bread in the house, for fear of eating too much butter, but perhaps I’ll make myself a loaf for Christmas, so that I can make sandwiches of my expensive black chicken. That used to be the part of Thanksgiving I enjoyed the most, turkey sandwiches. And Fred will make and enclose some mayonnaise with my chicken. (That’s interesting about black chickens in Chinatown, Sarah.)

 

There’s nothing in that loaf except flour and water and salt. How magical the sourdough process must have seemed when discovered in the stone age (and, indeed, still seems to me). Likewise the fermentation of wine and brewing of beer. No wonder Ceres and Bacchus were revered as gods.

 

Knitting

 

I’ve actually done some – finished off the first Evendoon sleeve, started the second. Perhaps a picture tomorrow. Congratulations on yours, Ivy!

 

Kate Davies’ pattern for the club last weekend was a cosy-looking pair of slippers with braid around the ankle. The essay was about braid-making, with a number of interesting possibilities. This really has been a super club – I think there’s one more week to go. I greatly look forward to the book.

 

AND I’ve sent off for yarn for a hap for one of the new great-grandchild. I got it all from Uradale Farm this time (where I have been, on my Yarn Adventure last year). No symbolism, just colours I liked. I’ll spread it all out and photograph it for you when it arrives. I’m encouraged to see that last year’s hap, started not long before Christmas, was finished by the end of January (see sidebar).

 

I notice that the Queen is expecting another great-grandchild at about the same time: the child of Princess Anne’s daughter Zara Phillips, as was, and former England rugby star Mike Tindall. Like my grandson Thomas and his wife Lucy, the Tindalls have two daughters and make no secret of wanting a boy.

 

Christmas

 

That’s a delicious article about bread sauce, Mary Lou (link with comment yesterday). It almost moved me to plan on making some – it’s very easy – but Helen says she will bring me some when she comes to administer my walk on Christmas Day. I’ll give her some cranberry sauce.

 

My Christmas dinner:

 

When I got up this morning, I said to myself that I would have a black chicken for my Christmas if someone had left a comment urging me to. So it’s on your head, Shandy. Fred says that they are not otherwise imported into the UK, and can only be eaten at fancy restaurants in France. I do agree with you, Tamar, that a chicken is just going to taste like a chicken, but we shall see. It will come with stuffing, gravy, and a potato gratin. I have also ordered parsnips, and I will add sprouts, maybe carrots, and cranberry sauce.

 

I will miss that happy ten minutes at the beginning of Christmas dinner, when everybody is passing the “sides” to everybody. Bread sauce was my husband’s must-have, as cranberry is mine. I’ll skip the pudding and the brandy butter.

 

Thank you all for bath suggestions. The last occupants of this flat were pretty old, too, and the bath is provided with excellent hand-rails, which do make a difference. We have a plastic stool which my husband used to use, when baths got difficult for him. It would take away all the fun, not go get into the water, but I think I may be past the stage of having fun in the bath. Another problem which must be faced soon is a low shelf of some sort for the cats’ food, so that I don’t have to bend all the way down to pick up their dishes. It’s no use being inspired by Jan Morris and by my friend Sylvia. They can do it; I can’t.

 

And I made my sourdough, all but the baking of it, which will be first thing tomorrow. It is remarkable how instructions vary. I think I am beginning to get the hang of it, but I still tend to cling to my original recipe. (“Always keep a hold of Nurse, for fear of finding something worse.”) I didn’t make a levain this time. I had fed my starter twice yesterday, with rye in the mixture, and this morning it was raring to go and passed the float test with ease. So I just used it as-was. All has gone well today – but one never really knows until one opens the oven at the end.

 

I am well advanced down the cuff of the first Evendoon sleeve.  I hope I’ll finish it this evening.

 

Another successful if fairly idle day. I meant to make sourdough, so, like last week, I mixed the levain last night. But this morning, it wasn’t ready-to-go. The test is whether a small piece will float in warm water. Mine sunk like a stone. I feel sure it was over-proved. I’ve been including rye flour in my starter feed of late, and that is like putting a starter on steroids. Should I have gone ahead anyway? It couldn’t have been dead. Maybe it would have sprung into action. But I didn’t want to waste a day’s work and all that flour.

 

So tomorrow I’ll go back to the old system, and mix the levain first thing in the morning.

 

No knitting, I’m afraid. I’ve been idly reading Jan Morris’ diaries. In her 92^nd year, she walked a mile a day (1000 steps) and read in the bath. I used to do that, long ago. VK was a favourite. But now I don’t dare sit down, for fear of not being able to get up again. I kneel, and take the legs one at a time when we get to that stage. No reading.

 

Archie came We got around the garden. He persuaded my iPad to disgorge pictures again. Here is Paradox, slightly blurry, with last week’s sourdough loaf. 

And we did some paper work.

 

I also got back into Craftsy. I had to re-set my password, because of all their changes, and for some reason password-resetting didn’t work on the iPad. But did, here on the laptop. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten most of my courses. I spent some idle time refreshing my stir-fry technique.

 

I’ve been feeding myself, some weeks, with carry-outs from a dear local restaurant, l’Escargot Bleu. Today they put their Christmas menu up. Fred is eloquent about la poule noir, volaille du Mans, a black chicken popular at noble French tables in the 17^th century, he says, and recently rescued from near-extinction. He has himself only eaten it twice in his life, and hopes we will leave him one for Hogmanay. It’s terribly expensive. Maybe I should have macaroni cheese and give the money to the poor. I’ll think about it overnight.

 

Not too bad a day. Successful bath and hair wash. The Evendoon has been advanced to the wrist ribbing of the first sleeve, although that is not finished.

 

Anne (comment yesterday), thank you for your reference to Dr Frances Kelsey, who saved the US from the scourge of thalidomide. (There is a letter in the Times today, making my point of a couple of days ago that caution saved the US; although Dr Kelsey isn’t given credit.)

 

Reading the Wikipedia entry about her, and going on to read about thalidomide itself, has agitated me a good deal. Rachel was born at the end of June, 1958. When I first saw a doctor – things were different in those days – and grumbled about morning sickness, he tossed a package of something across the desk and said, You could try these. I took one of them the next day, but then threw the rest away. The package said that they were tranquilizers, and I was a bit offended at the idea that this was “all in the mind” or that tranquillity would make a difference.

 

I have remembered the episode, as you see, but I always thought it couldn’t have been thalidomide because the dates didn’t fit. In fact, as I discovered from Wikipedia yesterday, they nearly do. Thalidomide was invented in 1957. Late ’57 would have been just the moment for the manufacturers to send the pills around to GP’s in the hopes that they would be prescribed for pregnant women. (In Germany, they were available without prescription.) They were recommended for morning sickness, and also as a tranquilizer.

 

But then I asked Google the natural-language question, When was thalidomide approved for use in the UK? And the answer was, 1958. By 1958 I was feeling better. The consultation I describe must have been late ’57. So those pills were probably a different tranquilizer-recommended-for-morning-sickness. I can calm down. We’ll never know. It would have been nice to think I got something right, once in my long life, all by myself.

 

Cam, my doctor-sister confirms what your Irish pharmacist said, that thalidomide is a useful drug in a number of contexts. I think (Wikipedia again) that it is still in use, but kept well away from pregnant women.

 

The weather was kindly today, at least as far as December can be expected to go. C. came, and we got around the garden. No walking tomorrow, as I mean to have a bath and hair wash while my cleaner is here (I’m afraid of falling) and then will steam gently dry.

 

You’re absolutely right, Tamar – I didn’t mean, yesterday, to suggest that thalidomide was a vaccine; only that it was a spectacular case of British regulators getting it wrong whereas the more cautious Americans were right. I listened to Americast today (while knitting); they played Fauci’s remarks with a bit of context. It certainly didn’t sound like a “mis-speak”. It sounded as if he thought the British were a bit precipitate.

 

Your remark about the possibility of a “bad batch” is interesting, too. This stuff has to be kept at a seriously low temperature. What if it warms up a bit, in the course of being transported from place to place and from hand to hand? Would it just become useless? Or something worse? We had a woman who is head of a public health body – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the initials – with Andrew Marr this morning. She tossed out a line about people who are taking blood-thinners, saying that it was perfectly all right for them to have the vaccine. That’s ME. It’s the only medication I take. Apixiban, it’s called, or something like that – at least no longer warfarin, on which I started out, after my pulmonary embolisms four years ago.

 

I found the relevant  paragraph on the website of the public health body. It said more or less the same thing. But why mention it? Lots of people take lots of drugs. Why reassure us, in particular, that the vaccine is Perfectly All Right?

 

Sometimes, in the evening, when I weary of whatever I’m reading and of Italian cookery shows, I re-read my blog. Last night I went back to December and November of last year, and was horrified to discover how much more energetic I sounded than I feel now. And how much more knitting I was doing than I seem to manage now. I was already well advanced on the centre square of Hamish Myemi’s hap in the colours of the South African flag.

 

I went to the Craftsy website with the thought of looking at Gudrun Johnston’s hap pattern, at least to see what quantities are required, but Craftsy has changed hands a couple of times recently, and my password didn’t work, and they haven’t responded to my request to set a new one. I went to Jamieson & Smith anyway, and was slightly alarmed to find that (a) Gudrun’s pattern, which they sell as a kit, is “out of stock”. How on earth? All they have to do is press Print and pluck a few balls of yarn from the shelf. And (b) several shades of jumper-weight red (which I had sort of thought of majoring in) are also “out of stock”. I had a look at Jamieson’s of Shetland and also Uradale – they seem to be all right for reds, although one was missing.

 

I must have printed the pattern. I’ve knit it twice. I’ll have a look tomorrow, when they turn the light back on.

 

Meanwhile, today, I dug some 4mm dps out of the stash cupboard and switched to them for the Evendoon sleeve. A vast improvement. I had been having trouble, with my two-circular system, in moving the stitches from the plastic cord to the needle. Is that join called the “hasp”? And it had to be done twice for every round. Now I’m whizzing around, and hope to finish the first sleeve while I’m steaming dry after my bath tomorrow.

 

Onward. I mentioned recently that I have, in cowardly fashion, ordered some new dps. Both yesterday and today I got a package in the mail which was just the right size and consistency, and both packages were something to do with Christmas, nothing to do with knitting. Maybe I had better take some time for a Serious Search, for there is now no hope at all from the postman until Monday. I’m sure I’ve got suitable needles somewhere. Two circulars work fine, but it’s slow going. I’ve finished another stripe.

 

I had a good Italian lesson this morning, and a good Zoom session with my sister at midday. She thinks women chess players will be as good as the very grandmaster-y best in a few more years. I’m not so sure. But since neither of us will live to find out, there’s no use fretting about it. She and her husband are going to stay away from their beloved (and nearby) grandsons at Christmas, but will invite some friends from the retirement community to join them for the day.

 

I was flattened by Italian, as usual, and the weather was filthy. I persuaded Helen to let me not go for a walk.

 

She is slightly worried about the vaccine, because the system is completely different from anything we've had before. She doesn’t expect to be offered it before February. Mass inoculation should be well under way in Britain by then, which will provide more evidence. US regulators, I seem to remember, never approved thalidomide; British ones did.

 

I had a good go at on-line Christmas shopping today, and have pretty well finished as much of the job as I intend to do. Not quite.

 

Barbara Pym “A Few Green Leaves” continues to sooth and amuse. I’m glad you agree with my contemporary identification of Lord Copper in “Scoop”, Mary Lou. And thank you for the information about withers.

 

Shandy, bless you and thank you for Barbara Pym’s “A Few Green Leaves”. I’m a fan, but it’s not one I know, and it’s just what the doctor ordered for these last grim days before the solstice. It’s very skilful, in its management of a fairly large cast and the shifts of points of view.

 

Mary Lou, I’m not at all sure I could identify a “wither” if you were suddenly to confront me with a horse. I’m glad to have introduced you to the phrase, and am delighted to hear that it appears in “Hamlet”.

 

I have done no knitting so far today, but have hopes of curling up with a podcast soon. I’m afraid I’ve ordered some dps. I hope they’ll come tomorrow. I’m hoping that today’s “Americast” will have gone up, but failing that, something from The Food Chain. The weather sounds ugly out there. Helen got me around the garden this morning in slight rain.

 

She says that my latest sourdough loaf has begun to go stale much faster than a store-boughten one would have. That is unexpected, as keeping quality is meant to be one of the attractions of sourdough. It still makes delicious toast, she says.

 

My Amazon delivery arrived not long after I wrote to you yesterday. Its “slot” was 3pm to 6pm, and the first time I logged on to “Track Your Delivery” after 6, the message had changed to “Your package will still be delivered today.” It is the thinking of things like that that made Mr Bezos the rich man he is.

 

Our virus: I am waiting with interest (but no impatience) to see what happens next around here. I’m fairly high up the list, given my age. I wouldn’t entirely mind waiting for one of the other two vaccines. Helen is dubious about the whole thing. We’ve had a considerable fuss here because of Dr Fauci’s saying the other day that the British regulators acted too fast, in approving the first one. Then he gave an interview to the BBC denying that he had said what he had said. Perhaps he didn’t realise, when he first spoke, how well known his name is here and therefore how widely he would be reported. But the episode wasn’t reassuring, for nervous old ladies.

 

A dispiriting day. I am waiting for a delivery. It’s Amazon, so it’ll probably turn up, although it has exceeded its time-slot. It’s cider, so I can’t just go to bed and let them leave it on the doorstep. No nap. I’m weary.

 

Helen came this morning. The weather has turned. We even had a bit of sad snow. We didn’t go out. She walked me around the house until I cried for mercy. Better than nothing. She says that the latest sourdough loaf was the best yet. Here is a picture of it:

 

The speckles are because I was using bread flour with seeds in.

 

So I am greatly encouraged, and mean to go on baking once a week. Perhaps it actually liked my taking more time for the levein (see Monday). That meant that all the other processes were a bit more leisurely, too, because I started first thing in the morning, instead of waiting half the day for the levein to be ready. And the final proof, in the refrigerator, was also prolonged. I kept being afraid of over-proofing – which is a danger to be avoided – but not this time, at least.

 

The Evendoon (spelled right, this time, I think) is progressing steadily if not exactly briskly on two circulars. Five stripes to go, of which the final one is the wrist ribbing. I found myself with all the stitches on one needle only once, so far.

 

No reading. That Italian thriller has left me with my withers wrung. I’m afraid to start another of his (Carlo Lucarelli) for fear it would be even scarier; not what one wants in these dark days. I am re-reading Il Gattopardo, where at least I know what to expect.

 

The sourdough turned out well – at least, it had plenty of “oven spring” and looked suitably risen. I gave it to Helen when she came for my walk. She has promised a picture of the crumb. I took a picture of the loaf itself, with a cat, but it’s stuck in the iPad. I thought Archie had fixed that.

 

I am much encouraged, and mean to press on. One of my favourite sourdough writers, James Morton, offers a cure for a problem that worries me: why doesn’t my starter increase in volume when I feed it? It bubbles appreciatively. It tastes deliciously sour and vinegar-y. And it leavens a loaf of bread. Morton says to feed it every day for a while, and include some rye or wholemeal in the diet. I’ll keep you posted.

 

And, although I haven’t done much knitting since I was last here, I have switched from Magic Loop to Two Circulars, and I think they will see me through. I wish I had at least considered your solution, Shandy – knitting the sleeves flat and attaching them afterwards, although I fear that would have spoiled the flow of the stripes, at least in my clumsy hands. My previous experience with Two Circulars was like yours, Kristen, with all the stitches winding up on the same needle. So far, I am being very, very careful every time I change needles and all is well. I watched a video with Cat Bhordi, who seems to have unvented the system, but there’s really nothing to it. How right you are, Chloe, to marvel at our different brains.

 

I had a good time at my sister’s club in DC yesterday, listening to a talk about Il Gattopardo. Although the Zoom meeting cast its shadow before, nervous-tension-wise, and left me unfit even to write to you yesterday. I disagreed quite a lot with the speaker. She seemed to admire Visconti’s film more than Lampedusa’s  wonderful book, and even said that Visconti was right to lop the last two chapters off. She said it was all about Garibaldi and the Risorgimento, which is true, but that made it sound boring. The book is really about the Prince and his family. Everything else goes on in the background. Visconti has a whole battle scene -- in the streets of Palermo? -- but there is nothing like that in the book.

 

I’ve been re-reading it, as I often do. I wish I had realised, when Archie and I were last there, that it was in the railway station in Catania where the Prince first saw Death, in her elegant travelling costume, veiled and gloved. He had insisted on travelling back from Naples to Palermo by train, instead of taking the ferry. A mistake with which Archie and I can sympathise, although we were going right down to the toe of Italy to see the Riace bronzes so there was no escape from that tedious journey. The book is vague about how a train crossed the straits of Messina in those days – now, they put it on a ferry.

 

From there, the Prince travelled to Catania, down the right-hand edge of the island, and then overland to Palermo which is on the top edge. Now, you must choose at Messina and go to one or the other. But I wish I had taken more of a look at the station in Catania.