Contemplation

I have been knitting.

Regular readers might remember that I have knitted things before, and a few days ago I made the enormously joyful discovery that I still had some wool left.

There was not very much of it. This was because it is so shockingly expensive that I have never been able to afford very much of it. It was bought in the days when we were better off than we are now, and is priced as if it had been spun by Rumplestiltskin. All the same, it is a wonderful pleasure to touch, and to knit with.

It is called Mongolian Jade Cashmere, and it is spun from the very softest hair of Mongolian goats who can only have it combed from their fleeces whilst a virgin is playing the lute and singing to them by the light of a full moon.

That might not be true. They might be sheep. I forget.

In any case, progress is very slow, partly because of the endless faff of picking up the knitting, then putting it down again whilst I go and look for my glasses, then picking it up and putting it down a few minutes later because it would be so lovely if only I had a cup of tea, and then knitting instead of purling because I have lost my place and having to unpick it. Also I can only knit something that is very little because I do not have very much Mongolian Cashmere left, and unless the Peppers sort their act out with the lottery I am never going to be able to afford any more.

I was knitting this evening when Pepper arrived.

She bounded enthusiastically over the bottom of the stairs and landed on the sofa.

When Lucy shoved her off she found what looked just like a tennis ball on the floor but which was delightfully soft and fluffy and just the perfect size to chew.

She was utterly astounded by the shrieks that followed.

Fortunately we persuaded her to part with it before she swallowed it.

I am now knitting with Mongolian Cashmere and dog dribble.

In the rest of  our lives, Lucy has been trying to raise the funds to purchase a house.

This is proving more complicated than expected, not least because most lenders think that if you are not yet twenty one, you are too young to borrow money, most especially tens of thousands of pounds, to be secured on a collapsing terraced house with a dead dog under the carpet.

I can sympathise with that perspective.

Lucy has spent the day exploring all avenues, and at one point I had a prolonged telephone call with an engaging pirate who was cleverly selling loans to people who had no money but lots of ambition, and who specialised in collapsing properties at auctions.

I was most mightily impressed at how much interest he had discovered that he could charge to such entrepreneurs. I am in the wrong business.

In fact I looked him very much. I explained what Lucy wanted to do, and he was quite kindly and helpful. He listened thoughtfully, and said that he would give us the advice that he would give to his own daughter, which would be not to borrow any money from him.

I agreed with him, and we turned our attention to other ideas.

We are still waiting to hear about most of them. I will keep you posted.

I emptied the dogs and washed the sheets and faffed about doing domestic things. Mark was at work, and I was supposed to clean out his taxi, but when I unearthed the hoover I discovered that it was raining, so I put it back again, not without some relief.

The taxi is still waiting. I will have to do it tomorrow I suppose. At least I will have to do it before Boris lets us all out again.

I am not looking forward to it.

Have a picture of some contemplation.