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 I returned to the hospital in Inverness this week to see another consultant and get the results of my various tests. And it’s good news (mostly).
As I walked into the consulting room I noticed a large computer screen with several photographs of what was evidently my throatal area; I had a general impression of pinkness with a large black blob in the centre. Oh Lord, I thought: if that black thing is malignant, no wonder they’re concerned. The consultant asked me to sit down and said (rather ominously) that we’d come to the photos presently. Meanwhile the biopsies had come back inconclusive but none of the cells showed any abnormalities. Was I now or ever a smoker? No. Did I use an inhaler? Did I get acid reflux? Yes and yes. Had my voice improved over Christmas? Also yes. Then she did that sneaky trick of sliding a camera up a nostril and down the throat (and how it gets there, as opposed to, say, exiting through an ear, still baffles me) and took a shufti.
 Marsh by the path Finally she showed me the photos, and I was relieved to discover—I’ve said before that biology isn’t my strong suit—that the big black blob was in fact (ahaha) my oesophagus. Close up, my vocal cords resemble a wishbone; the right side is smooth and sort of buff-coloured, but the left, which is the problem, looks more like an octopus’s tentacle, pink with white nodules. Anyway, she thinks this might be an infection (and not something more serious beginning with “c”). She’s going to put me on a course of medication to see if it clears up, and I go back for a service and MOT in three months. Meanwhile, we keep our fingers crossed…
 Backlit reeds …or we would, if that didn’t make knitting needlessly challenging, and an intricate dark navy gansey in midwinter is already challenging enough. I’ve finished side A, and have turned the record over to side B. And even though it’s a smallish gansey I’m pacing myself, trying to get as much done as I can in the hours of daylight (about 90 minutes on a good day if it doesn’t rain).
 When I got the good news from the consultant I was minded to do my best Harry Potter impression and start styling myself “The Boy Who Lived”. But that, I felt, would be tempting Fate (and not only because I had images of wrapping the car round a tree on the way home, Fate as we know having a nasty sense of humour); after all, I’m still waiting on the results of last week’s chest scan, and there’s also the question of the shadow they found on my thyroid. Even so it’s a huge relief, and I can’t help tempting Fate a teeny bit; so I’ll leave you with the words of Ancient Pistol in Henry V, when he and his companions go to visit Falstaff on his deathbed (and things worked out pretty well for them in the play, I believe): “Let us condole the knight—for, lambkins, we will live!”
 Well, here we are, a brand spanking new year just out of its wrapping to play with. Sometimes I look for a sign from Fate to indicate what the new year might bring, so there was great anticipation when we turned on the tv the other day. It was a nature documentary on ants, and David Attenborough declared, “The males will soon achieve their purpose and die”; and I thought, wow, bit harsh there, Fate. And what, I wondered, is my purpose anyway, and how will I know when I’ve achieved it? In the ants’ case it involved mating with the Queen, which seems rather a long shot; though I’ve written to Windsor Castle and am just waiting to hear back.
 Snow in Sunlight, the Cairngorms One of my purposes is obviously knitting ganseys, and I know I’m not done yet because I still have patterns to try and plenty of yarn to knit them with. Or else I get a commission which comes with its own yarn, as in the present case. I’m revisiting the celebrated Wick “trees and diamonds”, one of those marvellous Caithness patterns, last seen when I knit it in Frangipani Cordova a few months back. I’ve reworked the pattern slightly, as this one will be somewhat smaller: I’ve kept the centre panel roughly the same, but have scaled back the flanking trees and lost a couple of cables and the edge panels. It’s a rare treat for me too, as I’ve been given some vintage Poppleton’s navy yarn to make it with: a real blast from the past, which feels a bit like attending the Last Supper and being presented with a bottle of wine someone had saved from the wedding at Cana.
 Willow by the path In parish notices, Rebecca has sent us a selection of pictures of ganseys she’s been knitting, some familiar patterns and others less so. They look amazing, and if you ever wanted some inspiration for your new year’s knitting you’ll find plenty there. Many congratulations to Rebecca, and many thanks for sharing them with us all!
We had a slightly truncated Christmas away as I had to be back in Wick for another scan, this time of my chest and throat. I was duly hooked up to yet another needle—this took a while, as I’ve had so many tubes inserted recently it’s a challenge finding a patch of unpunctured skin—so I could be injected with a contrast dye to enhance the images. I was then slotted into a device that resembled a miniature Stargate while the nurses left the room.
 Redshank on the search The scan itself only took a few minutes. An automated voice like a Dalek sergeant major barked out helpful instructions (such as “BREATHE!” and “STOP BREATHING!”) and then it was over. Once the images were checked and approved I was allowed to leave, taking with me, apart from some indelible memories, the contents of my stomach (something of a first in my dealings with the medical profession), a migraine, a queer metal taste in my mouth from the dye, and a bruise on my arm roughly the size and colour of an eggplant. (The migraine and taste wore off next day; the bruise will take a little longer, as I watch it spreading slowly across my forearm like an exploding supernova.)
I don’t know the results of all these tests and biopsies yet, but “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” is my current motto; or in other words, as I’m not (or wasn’t the last time I looked) a male ant, I shan’t tempt Fate, but will keep my head down for now and carry on knitting. Here’s to healthy and happy 2022 for us all!
As regular readers will know by now, occasionally I have more than one gansey on the needles at one time—especially if the main gansey is very ornate or in a dark colour, when it’s relaxing to alternate with something simpler, or lighter. This is a gansey I’ve been working on for several months. It is, of course, the classic Scarborough pattern. But what makes this one a little special is that it’s made out of a variety of leftover yarns I’ve accumulated down the years: a mixture of Frangipani (about 60%, five separate dye lots), British Breeds, Wendy’s, Classic Elite Yarns and Island on the Edge. And here’s the thing: as I was knitting it, the assorted dye lots and yarns stood out “like a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake” (in Raymond Chandler’s wonderful simile), but as soon as it was washed and blocked, they virtually disappeared. You’d hardly know it wasn’t all the same yarn and dye lot. It’s a sort of alchemy. It fits me perfectly too, and somehow the fact that it was, in a sense, free, only makes it more fun to wear. Next week we’ll start the year by revisiting some familiar Caithness patterns.
 Northamptonshire lane And now it’s time for the traditional Gansey Nation Christmas Singalong (stop sobbing at the back). We’re not featuring a carol this year, since Christmas is so last week, but instead turn our minds to Gilbert & Sullivan, and their overlooked operetta, The Knitters of Knaresborough:
Oh, I am the very model of
a modern gansey knitter
A finished gansey jumper sets
the knitting world a-twitter,
Short of going jogging there
is nothing makes you fitter,
Oh, I am the very model of
a modern gansey knitter.
I knit patterns from the Hebrides,
old Whitby town and Flamborough,
From Filey and from Eyemouth and the
Lizard and from Musselburgh,
From Thurso and Seahouses, Wick,
Robin Hood’s Bay and Scarborough,
(My shoulder straps are quite ornate
or else they’re ridge and furrow).
 Christmas Cosmos The fishermen when out at sea
would don a plainish gansey,
But those they wore on Sundays were
spectacularly fancy,
A fisher lass went overboard
knitting for her fiancé;
The patterns are so intricate
they look like necromancy.
There’s marriage lines and heapies,
chevrons, diamonds and cables,
Print o’ the hoof and anchors, and
yarn-overs if you’re able,
There’s moss stitch, ladders, tree of life,
there’s zigzags and there’s herringbone,
(The yarn is guernsey five-ply, there’s
500 grams on every cone).
The patterns on the front and on
the back are quite identical,
So you can wear them backwards and
be smart for the conventicle,
The Humber keel men had a star with
five points in a pentacle,
Some disagree that necks were shaped
(the question’s ecumenical).
Foggy Dew Oh, I am the very model of
a modern gansey knitter,
It helps you keep your temper cool
and stops you getting bitter,
If your sister wore one in the dock
the jury would acquit her,
You’ll end up getting tons of likes
when posting pics on Twitter,
But make sure that it’s genuine,
not from a counterfeiter,
You can sparkle in the sunshine if
you sprinkle it with glitter,
Ohhh… I am the very model of
a modern gansey knitter!
[With apologies to, well, just about everybody, really]
Wishing all our readers a very Happy (and safe) New Year!
 And here we are, the Mrs Laider/Mrs Laidlaw gansey finished just in time for Christmas. I don’t really have much to say other than that I’m really pleased with it, and it just goes to show how creative you can be in combining patterns and still be confident that the end result will look stunning. And what a great colour Frangipani Denim is, and how well it always seems to show the patterns to their best effect. Next week, a one-off project that has me smirking with quiet satisfaction.
I had my neck scan in Inverness this week. The good news is that the lumps the surgeons spotted last week appear to be perfectly normal lymphy-type things. The bad news? Well, stop me if you’ve heard this before, but while she was looking the doctor discovered a hitherto-unsuspected growth on my thyroid. These are usually benign, she said, but she just wanted to take a sample to get it checked out. That was when my day, which till then was up there with the last act of Singin’ in the Rain in terms of happy endings, suddenly turned into something even Thomas Hardy might have rejected as too gloomy.
 Christmas Decoration Bombing The scan itself was a breeze, though the sensation of the scanner sliding over my neck on its film of cold jelly put me in mind of princess Leia being slobbered over by Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi (I was wondering why they made me wear that gold bikini instead of the more usual hospital gown), or possibly someone about to be devoured by a many-tentacled horror from the abyss. Then the doctor produced the needle… and, look, if you’re at all squeamish you might want to skip the rest, enjoy the pictures, and rejoin us next week.
Still with me? Well, don’t say you weren’t warned. The needle went in at the base of my throat, and only hurt a little thanks to a local anaesthetic. The initial probe for a sample lasted a minute or so and then the needle was withdrawn, and I thought, well, really that wasn’t so bad. Ha! Turned out she was finding it difficult to reach the right spot, and had to try again. This time it lasted several minutes, and I was aware of both a mounting pain and pressure in my breast (possibly, taking her cue from the dwarves in The Lord of the Rings, she delved too greedily and too deep). I started feeling anxious, then remote, then I blacked out.
 Hawthorn & St Fergus’ When I came to I was on my side, surrounded by concerned medical staff. Apparently the needle had touched a nerve (literally: the vagus nerve to be precise). I’d had something of a seizure (gone rigid and bit my lip so my mouth was bleeding) and fainted. I was sweating so much it soaked through my clothes, the bed, the floor and several floors beneath, prompting an investigation in the basement into burst pipes. I felt woozy and weak, and was sick at regular intervals for the next two and a half hours, by which time the novelty had definitely worn off. I was finally allowed to leave around 4.00pm, pumped full of anti-dizziness and -nausea drugs; given that I’d turned up at 10.30am for a 30-minute appointment, I pretty much felt I’d had my money’s worth. Oh yes, and the icing on the cake? The doctor who checked me over cheerfully opined that I had Menieres disease, which I must say didn’t improve my mood as much as he may have hoped.
 Sunset at Loch Watten But really, what does it matter? The trauma’s already fading, the bruises are too, and I can go into the new year with cautious optimism and only a biopsy or two to worry about. So now let Margaret and me wish all our readers a very safe and happy Christmas, and especially all those health care professionals who’ve kept services going so heroically over the last couple of years. See you next time, and happy knitting!
 “There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something (or so Thorin said to the young dwarves). You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.” That’s a quote from JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and it’s been running in my mind these last few days. I’ll explain why in a minute.
 Waves on the Wall I had my microlaryngoscopy—and what a wonderful word that is; if only the procedure was too—down in Inverness last Wednesday. They phoned the day before to say it was being put back four hours, which at least meant I was able to eat an early breakfast at the B&B (not that I had much of an appetite). Then it was a matter of killing time till 11.00am, when I made my way to the ward. I was led to a chair beside an empty bed, where I sat and waited till just after 2.00pm, having my blood pressure taken periodically, listening to my tummy rumbling, and knitting. Turns out bringing something to knit was a godsend, for not only did it help to pass the time, which hung pretty heavy after a while, it also served as an icebreaker for the succession of medical personnel who dropped by to talk to me: an anaesthetist, a surgeon and several nurses (the top two questions, in case you ever find yourself in similar circumstances and wish to be prepared, were, “What are you knitting?” and “How long does it take?”). And all the staff at every stage were great: friendly, informative, sympathetic, attentive and helpful.
 Riverside Hawthorn At last I was taken down to the theatre, a high-tech room that resembled the bridge of the Starship Enterprise with the addition of comfy beds. The procedure was to remove a sample from the lesion on my vocal cords and make a detailed examination of my throat (though not to actually remove the growth yet; that was my mistake). The general anaesthetic was administered by means of a cannula in the back of my hand, and the last thing I was aware of before I drifted off was a cold sensation creeping up my arm. An hour or so later I woke up in the recovery room (using the words woke and up here in their loosest sense), and after a while was wheeled back to the ward. I was still “nil by mouth” for a couple of hours, but since after a general anaesthetic the most my body is up for is more or less keeping my heart beating, that was fine by me. They kept me in till just after 7.00pm, when Margaret came and scooped up the remains and drove them home, which we reached about 10.00pm.
 Tidepools near the Trinkie And now it’s a few days later, and I no longer feel quite as though I’ve just stepped off a boat after a rough crossing—that’s my fourth general anaesthetic, and they always churn me up like a whisk. And so, other than waiting for the results of the biopsy, what happens now? Well, that brings me back to my Hobbit quote. For while they were looking, unfortunately they did indeed find something, or something that looks like it might be something; but until they do some more tests they won’t know what it is, or whether it’s anything to worry about. So it’s back to Inverness this week for a scan of my throat. I probably won’t know the results for a while, and at the moment anything is possible; and so it seems I might be going into the New Year, in Yeats’ eloquent phrase, “dreading and hoping all…”
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I returned to the hospital in Inverness this week to see another consultant and get the results of my various tests. And it’s good news (mostly).
When I got the good news from the consultant I was minded to do my best Harry Potter impression and start styling myself “The Boy Who Lived”. But that, I felt, would be tempting Fate (and not only because I had images of wrapping the car round a tree on the way home, Fate as we know having a nasty sense of humour); after all, I’m still waiting on the results of last week’s chest scan, and there’s also the question of the shadow they found on my thyroid. Even so it’s a huge relief, and I can’t help tempting Fate a teeny bit; so I’ll leave you with the words of Ancient Pistol in Henry V, when he and his companions go to visit Falstaff on his deathbed (and things worked out pretty well for them in the play, I believe): “Let us condole the knight—for, lambkins, we will live!”
