Charity shop drop off. Specifically bags of (hopefully) the last of Aunty's stuff which I've been driving round with in the boot of my car since December. These went to Oxfam who handed over a £5 voucher for M&S because some of the clothes bore that label. Nice one.
Cocktails. The coffee shop round the corner from the charity shop had stopped serving food (they'd run out, it had been so busy) so we consoled ourselves with very delicious blueberry, lavender and mint concoctions.
Crafting. Specifically, making a couple of cards. Or as it's known here, making a mess with the ink pad.
Competition. Each year, four of us have a go at nominating our own Oscar winners. Predictably, I came last. (Sorry, but Mark Rylance? Really?)
Carbohydrates. The farmers market in the big park down the road yielded savoury pastries (there's an excellent veggie/vegan food stall from York), sourdough loaves, muffins for toasting, lemon curd filled doughnuts, shortbread (of the peanut butter, ginger and salted caramel varieties) as well as soil laden vegetables, apple juice and pear cider and curry spices. A good, if a tad tough on the old purse, haul.
Celeriac. With all its fascinating knobbliness. My first ever. The market stallholder asked me how I was going to cook it. 'Not a clue', says I. Still haven't.
Cracking on with a piece of outstanding work. Whoah, my nose just grew. Truth is I just can't find the motivation or enthusiasm to finish it, despite the lure of a little pay cheque once I do. Mañana.
Croissants. As if all that markety goodness wasn't enough, the Boy decided to have a go at making a batch. From scratch. The whole process (using a Paul Hollywood recipe) was spread over two days and involved a lot of butter and rolling, but, I must say, they looked so very good, if so very non vegan. The other three here certainly lapped them up.
Cinema. Him: Do you want a carton of popcorn? Her: No thanks, I've brought a satsuma. So, The Revenant. It's long, exhausting, violent (very), bloody (extremely), there are some continuity errors (where did all the deep snow go? Oh, it's back), Tom Hardy has a strange accent ('And turns out that God......is a squirrel') but the scenery throughout is stunningly beautiful, there are close-ups so close that the camera lens mists and I only cried once. Okay, twice.
Chilling. On the carpet. With a chum. Or four.