To France and searching for pips and orchard petals…but summer has blown them away.

Wishing I was a paperback writer and planning pear and geranium jellies.

xxx

I used to make props and scene paint…but the smell of turps is not a winner and chicken wire can really puncture your paws. Flowers it was.

So here’s to hydrangeas, a change of career and knowing dear blooms, I love you so.

“Darling lovely girl, I’ve run out of all your Agatha’s but don’t want to read any of your dreadful world books…Kite Runner? pfff, Sophies Choice? tsk, Iris Murdoch? All that male angst? garumph”

What about all my flower and interior books? I mewed…

Clearly overcome by my literary wares and accompanied by silly ditties my future hub retreated to the cabin with a pile of cook books and foody threats.

An afternoons silence ensued, followed by a delish dins. Job nicely done, now where’s my Proust? xxx

are true…

I’m surrounded by roses from lovely friends.

My Dear Mme Cholet is turning in to an old lady.

All registry offices have lemon wallpaper.

I recently discovered Hurricaine Smith.

I’m really going off Brenda in The Archers.

Even Mabel is poorly.

Chandeliers will hang off trees.

My courgettes are wrinkly.

Sad but magical things have occurred this last year.

Kensal Cemetary is a good place to ponder.

Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s music taste can, as Caroline would say, Kiss it.

I’m betrothed to my own Tom Sawyer.

I never did, but now I do thanks to O, macaroni cheese.

There. xxx