Saturday, 11 May 2013

A bitty kind of day

A lovely peaceful quiet couple of hours this morning, both girls managing a lie in until eight o'clock. Coffee and calm cats and a hibernating house.

And then a dead bird (no photo. Be thankful). And then a live bird with broken legs. Shut Benjamin into the shower room, took noisy struggling bird outside, dropped him into a quiet corner of the hedge - into Grolly's jaws. Oops. Scooped up Grolly, shut her into the house; she leapt through my legs, grabbed the bird and disappeared into unreachable shrubbery. Released Benjamin on the theory two cats might despatch bird faster than one. Sigh.

Girls waking, I managed to send Mog's breakfast (weetabix and vegetable juice) all over her new rug and up the wall. A blood bath echoing the one taking place outside. Oops. Later, I will repeat this feat with her lunch (spaghetti bolognese), before deciding to switch to a better syringe.

A friend for coffee. Very nice, if you can ignore the screams and shouts and general tantrumage coming from tLP over everything and nothing at all. Sigh.

Fish and chips and mushy peas for munch. Sometimes it's just the only thing to do. And very nice too.

Then this afternoon a bit of a bake. Salted caramel chocolate tart, having been seduced by a friend's description earlier this week.

Chocolate pastry. Yum.

Salted caramel. A little underdone, but still very yum.

Chocolate goo. Always yum.

More chocolate pastry left, so mix up another batch of caramel to try again. Turn around to see tLP has moved on from rolling out the pastry, to painting the pastry with liquid soap. Bin pastry, shout at tLP, pour slightly burnt caramel over slightly ancient bananas and eat with a spoon. Reasonably yum.

Get into pointless debate over drinking water, eating coleslaw, and not reversing into people's feet.

Bedtime for girls, then more sewing on what started out as a quick fix and has become a ridiculously complex project. That blogger who said she finished hers whilst her baby was napping was either exaggerating, or her baby was in a prolonged coma. Or, possibly, she's a faster and more efficient sewer than I.

Do five minutes sewing. Find error. Spend 90 minutes unpicking and give up for the night realising only one inch of twelve has been undone.

Go to bed. Rejoice in the knowledge that tomorrow is a whole nother day, and His mercies are new every morning.


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