We got back from our trip 'oop North on Monday - left Sheffield at 9.15, arrived back home at 2.30 - two stops - so a good journey, thank God. As I am writing this we are in the throes of unpacking, watering plants, sorting, opening the mail etc etc.
Adam's merry men are doing the carpets downstairs.
The Derby branch of the family came over for lunch on Sunday bringing the two youngest granddaughters. The menu was planned with them in mind - sausages (from The Real Meat Company), mash and peas, followed by ice-cream. Firm favourites. Although... oldest youngest granddaughter didn't want to eat any sausage or any mash (but she had her choc ice), and youngest youngest granddaughter didn't want her mash and wouldn't eat her choc ice - it had chocolate on it and it was cold.
At that point we all remembered the occasion on which youngest oldest grandaughter was asked if she liked Captain Butterfly's homemade strawberry ice-cream. "NO. I don't. Its cold and it tastes of strawberry."
Was there a time when children ate what they were given? And of course they usually pretty much have to, but doting grandparents do try to provide treats at Sunday lunch.
It was a busy week - lots of writing and editing work done - lots more to do - and I am now feeling SO TIRED.
But I hope to get out on the doors this morning with my siblings. What better way to cope with the horrors of the news, the difficulties of old age, and the stresses and strains of the system than to try to tell all who will listen of the coming and imminent rescue?
I doubt I shall do much else though, beyond a necessary shop and making supper tonight.
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