Knit One Pearl One by Gil McNeil

hasn’t.”
    “She’s not my Grace, she’s our local Diva and I’m her knitting coach, that’s all. But she is amazing.”
    “I was looking at some paparazzi shots of her skiing, and even in one of those hideous ski suits she looks amazing. And they got her on the slopes; you could see she wasn’t in full makeup or anything. And she still looked bloody gorgeous.”
    “Are you still trying to persuade Harry to go on that skiing trip?”
    “No, I’ve gone off the idea now. Tom Partridge came back with his leg broken in three places; they had to air-ambulance him home. His wife wheeled him into the studio yesterday and he looked well pissed off. She was pretty chirpy though; it’s the first time she’s been able to keep track of him for years, he’s such a shagger. And anyway the outfits are hideous, unless you look like your Diva; she had a great fur hat on actually, beautiful, but she’ll have to watch it, I bet those animal rights nutters can ski.”
    “I’ll tell Maxine the next time she calls.”
    “When are they back from the States?”
    “A few more weeks, I think. She’s doing loads of publicity for the new film.”
    “And you’re the transatlantic knitting coach; see, you can do stuff like that. Not many people could pull something like that off. You just need a bit more après-ski, that’s all. I can see you might not want to tackle another black run like Daniel just yet, but you could still go off piste a bit more.”
    “Yes, and end up facedown in a snowdrift, being rescued by a Saint Bernard who’s even more stupid than Trevor. No thanks.”
    “Yes, but keep your eyes open for new boys, that’s all I’m saying. You never know, you still might get swept off your feet by a tall, dark, handsome fisherman or something.”
    “I’d need more than my eyes open round here, I’d need a bloody huge telescope. Anyway, you know we don’t have fishermen down here, apart from a few old codgers on the pier, and getting swept off our pier isn’t my idea of a good night out.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. He could rescue you, mouth-to-mouth and off you go. I’m feeling it, darling. Just don’t wear that tragic old sweater. Make sure you’ve got a cotton shift on or something.”
    “Good night, Ellen.”
    “Night darling.”
    Great. So now I’ve got to fall off the pier and hope I get rescued by a handsome stranger, rather than a pensioner with a folding stool and a thermos flask. I better get the timing right, because I could have quite a wait. A cotton shift would be hopeless; at this time of year you’d only last about thirty seconds in the sea, it’s bloody freezing. Maybe a flannelette one would give you a few more minutes. I saw a pretty one in one of my catalogs, I think, with roses on. Excellent. I’ll add it to my list. Or possibly not.

• • • 2 • • •
    Toddlers, Tiaras, and Tantrums
    February
    I’m kneeling in the window of the shop on Thursday morning, trying to hang little pink hearts on pink gingham ribbon. I’ve got cramp in my arm and I’ve just knelt on one of the pink fairy lights, so now I’m stuck dithering, leaning over the partition tweaking and trying to avoid kneeling on anything else. There’s always a point when I’m doing the windows that I want to chuck everything out in the street and go and get a doughnut. I lit the fire in the workroom earlier, and the lure of one of Mark’s chocolate croissants is growing: exactly what you need on a freezing February morning when you’ve just crushed a fairy light.
    I’m worried I may have overdone it on the pink: I’ve knitted small hearts in pale pink and a crisp white cotton, and some cashmere and silk ones in tea rose pink, and filled them with dried lavender, and Gran’s made some pom-poms, which I’ve hung from the partition, although they’re a bit more shades of Pepto-Bismol than I intended. Mrs. Marwell has just popped in to tell me she thinks it looks lovely, but I’m still not sure. Maybe when I