sat on the Saturday sofa..
Alright, alright I should be galvanising Debs into action with reference to our forthcoming...
wait for it...
kitsch and stitch fair
(never one to pass up on a chance for promotion me!)
I know, I know if you want something done ask a busy person. Trouble is, I'm an ideas wallah and laying horizontal on the sofa is a vital part of the thoughts process.
Trouble is the thinking part of my brain got to thunking about...
rice pudding and dried peas - like you do!
(Must try to remember not to pepper my prose with exclamation marks. Apart from everything else it's common. I am fully aware that I write EXACTLY as I talk - cliched twaddle).
At my favouritish supermarket - Waitrose I bought some pudding rice with a view to making a rice pudding.
Hold tight, we'll get there in a minute.
This is a picture of my lovely Grandad Smith taken in North Africa, my father taking the picture thought to get an atmospheric photo of the locals selling their wares. And in fairness he did, apart from Herbert the visiting Yorkshireman in his flat cap. Would have used a ! but I'm trying not to.
What's this got to do with rice pudding and dried peas I hear you groan?
Grandad Smith who lived with us (those were the days when they did) everyday insisted my mum, his daughter, make him a rice pudding. Yes, you did hear right every BLOOMING day.
And bless her, she did.
Dried peas... in his cardigan pockets he always had dried peas, don't ask me why, they were the snack of choice for him. Weird or wot?
In an earlier blog I've told you about my other eccentric grandfather (the wood-carving bank manager). Both of them I loved to bits.
Grandad Smith made me promise as a little girl never to smoke.
"But why Grandad, you smoke?"
"That doesn't matter, just promise me!"
and I don't...
and I never have.