Having a whole weekend with the old man, and not having to think about writing anything, or reading anything, was like going away for a month to the Maldives with only a sarong on my mind.
We slept in, we went to the vet….
Jackson is old but still spirted. I am now in receipt of an address for a hyrdrotherapy pool, an acupuncturist and a vets bill that is bigger than the GNP of Bhutan.
We bought CD’s, we had a coffee out, we shared a cranberry flap-jack, we bought all the newspapers, including the shiny ones with celebrities on the front cover.
Jim played his guitar whilst I sat in front of a blazing fire with David Niven’s autobiography.
We watched ‘Letters to Iow Jima’ , having eaten a splendid little curry, then fell into bed very late and satisfied.
Sunday, ah! Sunday. Zoe, Corin and Maia, Giles, Bee and Nathan, Jim, me and the ‘nimals, gathered in the kitchen to eat Toad-in-the-Hole and drink Zoe’s Carva.
We toasted pannetonne, ( not with the Cava, under the grill ) laughed at the little one, and walked down the hill to feed the chickens with a loaf of bread that cost 37p, ( don’t ask ) it was bloomin freezing.
As the light faded, the candles were lit and another family gathering ended up with more mess than breakages.
I fell asleep in bed surrounded but the ‘Sundays’ all unread.
This morning was bright and sharp. I left the cottage at 10.00 and arrived at LBC in time for a cuppa coffee and a sit down with Steve, my producer.
My weekend had cleared my brain.
Your debate on THE HOLOCAUST, was both scintillating and deeply moving.
Pancakes and doctors filled the rest of the programme.
Remember it is pancake day tomorrow, my love goes out to all you tossers, I’ll be beating my batter with the best of you.