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)
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
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
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
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
And there you have it...
our Easter Sunday, amid
our first encounter of the