I'll have to be quick again this morning – Sunday looms.

45 scallops done, despite the rugby. I watched only one of yesterday's matches, France-England. It was a thriller, not at all conducive to lace-knitting. Even that sock proved too much. France snatched victory with a last-minute try and conversion. That word sounds so inconclusive to American ears – with a last-minute success.

I think I've decided to crochet-on the stitches for the centre of the Unst Bridal Shawl. I don't have the right sort of relatively heavy-weight shiny mercerised cotton for a crocheted chain, and don't want to wait until I can get myself up to John Lewis. I'm concerned about elasticity – Miller warns to be careful  to keep things even but loose when knitting-on. I think crocheting-on would be safer.

So today, if rugby allows (Ireland-Scotland), I'll hope to finish those last five scallops, count all 200 to make sure I've got it right (if not, they will be easier to fix now when I know the pattern than in six months time), find a crochet hook and the right waste yarn, remind myself how this is actually done, and leave the operation itself for tomorrow. Even that programme sounds a bit ambitious for a Sunday.

Scifiknitter, I was glad to have your back-up for my enthusiasm for Mansfield Park. It does indeed have dark currents. Henry and Mary Crawford are both masterful studies of characters not-all-of-a-piece, weak, self-indulgent, intelligent, perceptive, capable of good, if things had turned out differently. I've never cared much for Emma. There is much to admire and enjoy in the others, but nowhere the same profundity.

There. Now I had better tackle last night's washing-up.