Bridport lockdown diary - Day 52
The cast:
Me
'The undertaker' (husband)
'The undertaker' is on call for a week. Groan. Thankfully got an uninterrupted nights sleep but was awakened at 4.30am precisely by a blackbird singing so loudly and lustily he could well have been in the room. Climbed out of bed and looked out of the window to see if I could see him but the movement sent him flying off. Admired the early red glow on the horizon of the days dawn arriving.
It was with horror that I awoke to the news that some sneaky so and so had taken pictures of myself and neighbours minding our own business whilst sticking to guidelines and posted them up on a social network site. What a bloody nerve. I demanded they be removed. I now have renewed sympathy for celebs fighting the ever intrusive invasion by the paparazzi. Who could ever have guessed I would personally be on the receiving end of such an outrage?
I know its not really the done thing to blow ones own trumpet in polite society but due to this social distancing needs must. After the resounding success of yesterdays Victoria Sponge sandwich I felt the need to repeat the experience by quickly knocking up another one. It could have so easily been a let down and it was with some trepidation that I handed over a slice to 'The undertaker'. With just a plain and ordinary cup of tea, instead of copious glasses of bubbles, would it measure up in taste and texture? I am pleased to report that it most certainly did. Two days of deliberate debauchery.
After yesterdays excitement and unusual frivolity I must admit to feeling slightly subdued today. Its as though someone has pricked my happy bubble. Boo hoo. For reasons we won't go into 'On the ground in Frances' birthday always provokes mixed emotions in me. Exhausting. Life events.
Am happy to report that outside is weirdly quiet today. Lying prostrate in the garden on my glorious steamer chair (An extravagance to be sure, yet worth every penny) one of the collared doves startled me by rootling around very close by in the grass. For want of anything else more exciting to do I watched him, or possibly her, never having realised what pretty birds they are.
Have managed to spend the day, (thus far) without upsetting anyone, so far so good, apart from feeling the need to send photographs of second cake to culinary friend. Whats that all about? Just because he made the outrageous suggestion that I didn't actually make yesterday's cake! why would I feel pushed to send him proof? Does he suspect, (as I suspect he does) that I have a ginormous overriding guilty secret to hide insofar as only half of what I report is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Interesting theory.
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