Now, I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but every now and again I seem to shed some forty of my almost fifty years, and revert to my inner eight-year-old. It happened again recently when I picked up a copy of Thomas Hardy’s early novel “A Pair of Blue Eyes” and discovered that chapter 18 is entitled “He Heard Her Musical Pants”. This has cheered me up through some difficult days recently, and has popped into my mind at odd moments – when I’ve been introduced to the Keeper of the National Archives of Scotland, say – and the thought of what sounds they made has made stuff come out of my nose at the most inappropriate times.
Ah well. You’ll see from this week’s pictures that progress is still slow. I spent most of last week in Edinburgh, right enough, and a fair portion of it was spent in my hotel room, listening to the streets below being dug up in preparation for a new tramway for the city. But I didn’t get as much done as I’d hoped, partly because I had homework to do most nights (and how unfair is that?) but also because I was usually just too tired. In fact, some nights it was as much as I could do to slump on the bed and watch the cricket test match between England and the West Indies unfold (5 days and it still ended in a draw – what a great game cricket is!).
This is, once again, the time in the life of a gansey when I run the risk of putting it down and finding several months have elapsed before I take it up again. Of course, writing this blog helps enormously, as I now have an incentive to keep going or look like, to quote someone else I met from the National Archives of Scotland in a different context, a “namby-pamby Southern jessie”. (I’m not exactly sure what that means, but from the context it didn’t sound like something I wanted to be…) But I aim to do at least a row a night at the very least, usually more, and it’s accruing like a stromatolyte pillar in Australia (I’m now thinking in geological timescales, you’ll notice).
The good news is, I’ve found us a flat to rent in Edinburgh. Of course, being close to the centre it costs as much as the gross domestic product of Denmark each month, but that’s a small price to pay for being able to walk to work, I feel. One step forward…