Nothing exciting to report from here.
Apart from that afternoon last week when the mister came home from a supermarket trip to find TV crews and reporters at the end of our drive. No, we hadn't scooped a fortune with a winning set of numbers on a lottery ticket. They were outside the wrong house.
So, those supermarket visits. They're happening every day, more or less. Admittedly, we don't plan menus, salad ingredients and summer berries need to be bought frequently, the various pets demand what feels like constant topping up and we mostly shop without a list so something essential is usually forgotten resulting in a return trip. But daily? Who's eating/using all the stuff?
Another blanket is in the making, started in a bit of a panic when crochet club loomed at the weekend and I realised the hooks (I own a total of two) were lying forlornly in the fountain pen box. I've opted for a mix of small squares (it's already clear they're not all the same size) and can't help wondering if, yet again, this is destined for the dog's basket.
Whilst the members of our little group were happily crocheting away in the window of the yarn shop, a young girl popped her head round the door and asked if someone could possibly help her. 'I've taught myself to knit but I need to learn how to cast off. My scarf is currently nine feet long and it's costing me a fortune.' Bless.
I'm currently working on a little project after being approached by a local authority to support them in improving services. It won't significantly bolster the bank account but it's keeping the brain ticking over and it was strangely comforting to be asked.
Biscuits of the choc chunk, oats and coconut variety made a brief appearance in the kitchen. Very brief. Seems improvement thinking requires a certain type of fuel.
I stayed up later than usual one night to finally watch the very last episode (I don't usually watch last episodes, clearly having an issue with endings) of my favourite series, Mad Men. The solitary viewing was predictably accompanied by noisy sobbing.
Another book was ordered. (Whilst awaiting delivery, I romped through a murder mystery, the highly enjoyable third in the series about eleven year old amateur sleuth and chemistry wizard, Flavia de Luce.) Funny, isn't it, that, despite an impressive to be read pile, after stumbling across a new to you author, you simply have to get your sticky little mitts on everything in their back catalogue? Or maybe that's just me.
A treat of a new bottle of perfume came through the letterbox (well, maybe not literally). I love perfume, always have, probably always will, and I have my trusty favourites but sometimes it's good to live a little dangerously. This is a white floral with notes of sandalwood, osmanthus and Indonesian patchouli at its base. Apparently.
The aunt has been yo yo-ing between the hospital and respite care. She's back at the care home. For now.
It was strange visiting her on the day that marked seven years since I'd sat in the very next room with my dad as he passed away.
My dad. Baker of breads, cakes (his Sachertorte is legendary in these parts) and pastries par excellence. It was only fitting that night to serve a pudding that the Girlie and Boy, who had tea with my parents every Friday after school, will forever associate with him.