Enjoying a sticky treat (dark chocolate and quinoa, so practically a superfood) from the farmers market for an al fresco breakfast.
Cursing the (huge) source of all those leaves covering the garden and thinking maybe we should swap Boo for one of these.
Feeling smug at successfully growing Virginia stock from seed.
Wondering when the night scented stock sown at the same time will put in an appearance.
Realising certain aspects of my role here are now redundant after the boy baked his own birthday cake. Four layers of Madeira-like sponge with white chocolate ganache and waves of Belgian white chocolate curls. Nine eggs and half a dairy of butter. Next year he can buy his own birthday presents.
Continuing to leave the hair straighteners unplugged and resorting to intervention as humid conditions prevail.
Remembering the time my hair was always worn au naturel, and, with a picture of an eighteen year old self in my head, asking the mister if my currently wild locks reminded him of anyone from way back.
Pausing only ever so slightly, he replied: