'I see it's formal' floats up the stairs...

as Ted stands at the bottom thinking he's about to see a

total eclipse, as I climb into my knicks.

Feeling strangely discombobulated I wistfully look at my

crumbled palazzo pants as I climb into proper trousers;

you know the ones, with a waistband and zip.

Well it is my first morning as a goddess of the garden.

Before I even think to ask, I take a backwards glance at my derriere and fall back at the sight of my bum looking like a clootie dumpling cosy in its cloth.

National Trussed that's me.

Crossly I've stumped and stamped my way through the morning.
'Why LL, Why?'
Every cotton-picking one knows all you really, really want to do is...
stay home and
write...
'Right?'
Every cotton-picking one knows...
you can't!
'I can!'
I want to be this highest village in Kent's answer to...
Daniel Day Lewis.
I want to just be me.
Alright, unlike him I don't have any desire for DIY,
making shoes maybe?
Hats definitely!
Two things in my many and various I haven't tried.

Look I can't sit around talking to you all day,
I've got a 'job' to go to.
Worse than that I've got to get the car out,
climb in and drive off down the hill.

On my return I will let you know how I got on,
or put another way, is the ancient relic still intact.
'No, not the castle, me Silly!'