Yes. Strangely, it's true. There are days of such crippling self-awareness, one just can't face sharing one's inner anything with whoever might wander by.
All I can report for now is: my legs don't half ache from a weekend of very satisfying walking. Outdoor eating and reading inbetweentimes, very nice for March. And a lost hour in the basement of TK Maxx, Kensington High Street.
There's an excellent bread and butter pudding making it's way out of the oven any time now.
Last weekend I was forced to dress up as Fanny Craddock for a 30th birthday party. OK, nobody forced me, and it was an opportunity to wear the most wonderful frock which hadn't had an outing since purchase.
xx
Cradock, please. Blame pedantry on grumpiness due to watching whole of Gardeners' World on replay in anticipation of "Monty Don turns his attention to his 'dry garden', an area where the soil is baked by the sun", only to watch rhapsodising about plants for 'damp garden'. Harrumph.
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