I want to sing, I want to...

dance...

a flavour of my Easter Day

in mizzly Kent.

Picture the scene...

They sit at the breakfast table...

peering into each other's eyes...

across the no mans' land marked by the 

many and various pots of jam, honey, marmalade,

Peanut butter, Marmite and Bovril.

(It must be the weekend, because four pieces 

of toast sit in the rack and there is butter)

Butter?

Weekdays for him its one slice of

dry toast with Marmite.

Weekdays for 'butterball me' its

one slice of toast, butter obviously,

half spread with Bovril, half with honey.

This is no ordinary Sunday...

this is Easter Day,

and as Simon would say 

'Today we celebrate!'

***

Ted set off to the tipper wagon parked

in our local village car park

(twice a month it calls).

Brown bin filled with clods of clay

resembling 

the Stone of Scone.

Our address isn't Clayhill for nothing, you know!

Artfully topped off by a white sink and

many and various gourds, squash and

oddly shaped members of the 

Cucurbitaceae family.

Think tunnelling/Colditz, then you get the general idea.

Soil, my man informs me is definitely verboten in

the world of landfill.  Hence the subterfuge.  

Returning home victorious,

coffee laced with brandy is served.

The man suggests a little bare-footed Tai Chi warm-up on the parquet?

Falling onto the dfs sofa

an idle glance at the Sunday paper 

before luncheon.

The rain by now looks set in for the day.

'I know!  Let's light the fire in the winter room 

and over a bottle of bubbles we could play 

Mexican Train!'

And there you have it...

our Easter Sunday, amid

rehearsals for

our first encounter of the

thespian kind.