The littlest and his mother visited for a belated celebration of the mister's birthday and we spent Saturday afternoon mooching around the market town up the road, intending to make the most of the pre-Ciara weather.
We kicked off with a tasty lunch in a newish Italian cafe, showing remarkable restraint in the presence of an array of cakes and bakes (honestly, they were on every surface), walked along the riverside, popped into the churchyard to examine the snowdrops, stocked up the larder and bathroom from another recent addition to the high street and made a few purchases in the charity shop.
I chose three books (I want to make just about everything from the preserves book, I recently watched the film of the Rhidian Brook novel and fancied extending my limited knowledge of Buddhism), a print (which reminded me of the little wood near our house but was greeted with a says-it-all stony silence by the others, huh, philistines) and a wonderfully soft shirt (which looks unworn). All for the unprincely sum of £3.98.
Back at home, we voted on dinner options.
'Let's celebrate with a sausage', suggested littlest. After some lengthy deliberation, we eventually went down the takeaway pizza/curry route. The mister preferred fruit from the fridge.
The day finished with candles, an enthusiastic rendition of the birthday song and generous slices of cake (plus a side of extra Smarties for some) with a couple of episodes of this (gravity defying, body torturing, relentless hard graft with some very sad back stories).
Sunday continued in much the same vein, if a tad gustier and wetter, with a leisurely breakfast, a meet-up with the Boy, lunch in a coffee shop, food shopping, the usual stuff.
All too soon we were waving the visitors off but there was an evening on the sofa in the company of the latest knitting project (a bag, this one, knitted in one piece, lining, handles, the lot, and which currently looks like a scarf with holes) and Agatha Christie on the telly to look forward to.
I love weekends, me.