Wandering the grounds and ruins of the 12th century Augustine priory which the Boy's apartment (it still feels strange to type those words) overlooks. As views from living room windows go, it could be worse.
Feeling crafty. Nothing too ambitious, I know my limitations only too well. Arthur was an enjoyable Easter make for the littlest, a baby sized blanket was on and off the needles in no time and a huge granny square was intended to use up the bags of woolly oddments (hence the strange colour scheme) but which, predictably, resulted in a trip to the yarn shop for more supplies.
Sporting a snazzy pair of hand knitted socks (and yes, that is the feet up the bedroom wall pose so beloved of bloggers). After the knitting workshop fiasco, the socktastically generous Jenny gifted these, salve, indeed, for a bruised ego.
Enjoying dinner at a local pop-up, courtesy of a vegan cook who just happens to be a member of my favourite band and who, after a post meal chat at the tables, could be forgiven for a level of concern about a scarily enthusiastic fan. Who, moi?
Celebrating Easter and Custard Cream Thursday with a variety of bakes.
Weeping over a book (not the first time and most probably not the last). A large white creature suddenly appears in the woods. What is he? Why is he there? Why is he trying to fly? This is a beautifully told story (for children, for everyone) with exquisite illustrations. And a polar bear. If it doesn't have you shedding a tear, you're made of tin.
Recommending another read, an account of the slow unfolding of a relationship and an unlikely couple (he was formerly her teacher and there's a thirty year age gap). A short novel, this is gentle, poignant, with a strong sense of place. And gallons of sake.
Reuniting with Harry Hole. It's been too long.
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