A small boy eating frozen peas and dried pasta at my feet, a teen weighing ingredients behind me, and a friend at the other end of the country with a switch activated whisk for her son, and a cloth to wipe away her daughter’s sticky fingers.
Time passes. Rain falls; my boy is not happy about this. He loves the puddles but cannot understand why he sticks on the slide.
This morning, more time in the garden. A small forest of sycamore, hacked down to fence level (don’t worry; it’s a double fence and the trees grow in no mans land between the two) and then further chopped and forced into the garden waste bin.
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