Self-defeating the point

After being alive enough to do parkrun on Saturday, my post-drinking condition declined so much, I couldn’t go to the party that I’d bought new clothes and gone up north for – aargh.

My sister had come over, but declared herself too tired to go out, and Mr Pandammonium didn’t want to face my relatives without me to act as a buffer. And who can blame him?

Instead, we pathetic three stayed in, ate air-fried sausage rolls and watched rubbish on the telly. My brother had bought my mam an air fryer in the Black Friday sales. I think we had a better time at home than if we’d gone out, going by the running commentary on WhatsApp.

None of us did much on the Sunday – not even a trip to the beach, although I talked Mr Pandammonium into buying me an air fryer in the Black Friday sales, which would give me plenty of time to practise using it before Christmas, when I expect it to come in very handy. No one wants burnt roast potatoes, after all.

The drive back down today was ok, apart from the roadworks in the middle of the A1.

We were hoping to fetch Mr Perkins en route, but we caught the cattery’s siesta. I had a cup of tea at home, then went to fetch him; oh, the miaowing!

After another cup of tea, I had to go to Pilates. Work that derrière!

The book in the photo is one I used to read all the time, which makes it a mystery why I’m so bad at house plants. It’s got instructions that might fix my sodden begonia. My mam let me bring it down with me to keep.

The book of hers that I desire the most is her Mrs Beeton. When I wasn’t reading about plants, I’d be reading about boiling sheep’s heads in wine to make a Victoria sponge cake.

‘You can’t have Mrs Beeton.’

Hmph. ‘I’ll wait till you’re dead.’

‘I’ll put it on the list.’

So I will get it, but now I have to hope it won’t be any time soon.