It was a Sunday Sunday.
I didn’t get dressed.
I didn’t cook.
I didn’t hoover.
I didn’t garden.
I didn’t wash the dishes.
The dawter and her beau bought me the ‘Observer’ and I read an article on Bill Nighy who was asked to be Vogue’s agony uncle.
That man of style makes me smile.
I sat on the settee reading the paper as the old git laid the fire..
The rain pitter pattered on the kitchen skylight.
Sid nestled in the ben bag. Deeply curled in the bean bags beans,
The beau cooked dinner. We had roast chicken and Yorkshire puds and cauliflower cheese and honied carrots and peas. Roast potatoes and real gravy.
We sat at the kitchen table and ate off big white plates, candles burning and the lights dimmed.
A proper Sunday was had by all.
I even avoided the news. Although I was heartened by the millions of Americans who took to the streets to protest against The Grump. The audacity of the man who would be King. The jumped up potty mouth who has decimated the White House garden, massacred 200 year old trees to make way for a golden ballroom.
What will it take to silence his sycophant?
When I do watch the news I am forever tutting and moaning. Incredulous at the impertinence of the man. I say man…..
I toured a lot in America when we had the food show. From Chicago to North Carolina from New York to Kentucky, and then I overstepped a mark. Having written a blog that enraged the Kentucky high ups I was ordered to take the blog down.
My writing had caused the authorities to threaten a law suit. My 1000 words had outraged them. All I had done was criticise the hotels decorness and said less than wonderful things about their water feature. This was years ago – even then any form of criticism was untenable.
The Trumpton saga can’t last, there is a sense of a man hurtling towards a brick wall, when he slams into it won’t we laugh? Won’t we rejoice in the destruction of an over blown twat.
Watching the freed Jews hugging their relatives, watching the Palestinians balancing in the rubble as they hug their freed captives. The contrast of the two countries, the ladling of grief from a genocial elite. The humility of the Palestinians who have nothing but still wish to return to their nothingness. I hum and hah at the injustice of it all. Anything that Trump
touches turns to rust. He could care less at the sink hole he is creating.
I seethe.
The dawter made an apple crumble. She plucked 6 apples off the middle tree, brought them into the kitchen all wet from the rain.
We had the crumble with custard to round off a proper Sunday.
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