Doctor Thomas and I are off to Gran Canaria for six nights of sunshine, rest and recuperation. By the time you read this, we’ll probably be sitting in Gatwick Airport.
Knowing Doctor Thomas, he’ll have treated me to lunch at Wondertree for our 16th anniversary.
I shall leave you to decide where that sits on the scale of romantic gestures. On Wednesday, tuxedos and live jazz. On Sunday, “Have you finished? They’ve announced the gate.”
We’re travelling with our best friends, who were our best men at our wedding last year. A lovely chance to spend time together and recharge before Doctor Thomas heads into the heavy winter season on the hospital wards.
His knees, however, have already begun their winter preparations.
Doctor Thomas and the dining room tundra
Doctor Thomas has been enjoying working from home a few days a week to do his admin.
He sits in our dining room, which now has new double glazing, new curtains and, sometimes, even the heating on.
A lesser man might consider this sufficient.
Doctor Thomas has bought an electric heated blanket for his knees.
Apparently, conditions between the dining table and the floor remain extremely challenging.
I’m married to a man who can cope with the demands of a hospital ward but requires knee heating to answer an email.
Hence Gran Canaria. Six nights somewhere warm seemed easier than installing a wood-burning stove beneath his chair.
Seven minutes to 1930s New York
Before we left, we had the most wonderful Wednesday evening with our friends Christine and Nigel at 58th Street in Peckham.
Doctor Thomas and I put on our tuxedos and walked to 1930s New York.
It took seven minutes.
If Gatwick could offer that sort of service, I’d be considerably more enthusiastic about the journey.
Apparently, this immersive jazz experience has been happening practically on our doorstep for more than two years, and we knew nothing about it. Presumably, we’ve been too busy insulating the dining room.
From the moment you arrive, the greeting makes you feel as though you’re entering a private members’ club in 1930s Manhattan. You stand a little straighter. You begin to feel your tuxedo was an entirely sensible investment.
The live jazz from the 58th Street Stompers gives the evening its pulse, with theatrical storytelling, glamorous outfits and a lavish American-style dinner drawing you into the whole experience.
It’s the sort of setting that makes you want to linger over dinner, enjoy the music and briefly forget that you have laundry at home.
There was also burlesque.
Which I had to watch.
I do try to support the arts, even when it requires this level of personal commitment.
Sharing it all with Christine and Nigel made it an especially lovely evening. Good company, dinner, jazz and the knowledge that home was only a short walk away. My kind of international travel.
Tuxedos beneath the coats
We weren’t allowed to take photographs inside, so our photographic evidence was gathered outside.
In our coats.
We had gone to considerable trouble to look glamorous, only for the British weather to insist we cover the whole thing up.
Underneath, evening dress and sophistication. Above it, sensible outerwear and a strong desire to get indoors.
The weather has turned, and Doctor Thomas’s knees would like it recorded that they warned us.
A baby blanket with a boarding pass
My holiday knitting is coming with me because I recently made a very familiar mistake.
Our neighbours told me they were expecting a baby, and before my brain had checked my diary, my mouth said:
“Oh, I’ll knit you a baby blanket!”
Have you ever done that?
For one glorious moment, you picture the finished blanket, the delighted parents and the beautiful new baby wrapped in something you’ve made.
Then you cast on.
And remember that you have personally volunteered to manufacture a small field.
Babies are tiny. Their blankets seem remarkably reluctant to follow their example.
I’m knitting this one in LANGYARNS Mille Colori and LANGYARNS Merino 200, and it’s coming to Gran Canaria, where I’m hoping to sit beside the pool in 27 degrees and make serious progress.
Some people take a novel on holiday. I take a promise I made to the neighbours.
There will be plenty of love in those stitches, although occasionally that love may sound like, “How can I possibly still be on this row?”
But that’s the lovely thing about knitting for a new arrival. You put time and care into something that will keep a little person warm. Every row becomes part of a welcome.
Which is what I shall remind myself when everyone else is ready for lunch and I announce that I’m just finishing one more row.
An expression knitters know can mean anything from three minutes to Thursday.
I’ll show you photographs when it’s finished. With luck, that will be before we come home.
So that’s the holiday plan: sunshine, our dearest friends, a little rest and a considerable amount of knitting.
If all goes well, I’ll return with a finished baby blanket, and Doctor Thomas will return with warm knees.
I expect only one of us will need blocking.
