What we do on a wet Sunday

It is the last day of the holidays, and in the time honoured tradition of British holidays it is absolutely lashing it down. We have taken this as a sign that a pyjama day must be observed.

I spent the morning finishing Fathomless Riches by Reverend Richard Coles. I love a good celebrity autobiography, and this filled the bill perfectly. He writes like a dream, has a very interesting life and a wide variety of wondrous friends and acquaintances and has a good ear for gossip. I have been utterly absorbed for hours, and demand a sequel.

After this I turned on Radio Four and spent the time listening to Desert Island Discs and Just A Minute preparing Sasha’s (Liberty London Girl) beef and barley broth from Friends, Food, Family, which we will eat this evening with lashings of papardelle, and probably more wine.

I am in need of comforting food at the moment. There are emotional currents afoot in the family which are somewhat stressful and which I find marvellously soothed by the application of my mind to making splendid dinners…and eating them.

We are all good, but it is a somewhat trying time for reasons entirely out of our control, and we are all doing our best to keep our minds occupied and our thoughts calm until such time as it is legitimate to run around shrieking. Or hopefully not.

This may be why the blog will inevitably become rather more food heavy than usual in the next few weeks. Apologies if you are on a diet.  You have been warned.

Tilly is baking banana bread which she is experimenting with by filling with Nutella. This may be a triumph. It may be a disaster. We await the results with bated breath.

Oscar and Tallulah are writing rude songs about Tilly, who they feel shirked in her duty towards them and didn’t help them put the washing away, despite the fact that she was doing another job entirely.  They are accompanying themselves on the ukulele.  We have two now, as Tallulah has spent her Christmas money on a baritone uke.

They have written out the song lyrics in huge font and have taped them to their persons, just in case she doesn’t understand the full force of what they are saying. They are roaming the house like angry troubadours. The cat is following in their wake in bemused wonder. It beats sitting outside in the rain, cowering under the barbecue and lashing your tail at presumptuous squirrels.

I plan to ignore them completely. So far I have been quite successful. I have, instead of banishing them and making a ukulele based fire, booked a hotel for a road trip in the summer. We are going to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park where I was hoping to see Ai Wei Wei’s work, but which, it turns out, finished in December. Instead I will see Emily Sutton, who I also love, and lots and lots of Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth, which will be no hardship.  We are sojourning in a Premier Inn overnight, and spending the next day at Salt’s Mill in Saltaire, where they are showing a new collection of David Hockney’s iPad works.

I love both these venues and I am really excited that I have been organised enough to book things. Last year I intended to go to lots of places and then went to very few because I was not organised enough. This year I am grasping the organisational nettle. Road trip is ON.

Now I’m going to take up my knitting and my tea cup, and get on with the frankly gargantuan task that is the blanket I have allotted to make, thinking it would be easy, and which is not. That should keep me busy until eating dinner and crying at Call The Midwife becomes obligatory.

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