Sunday, 20 April 2014

I want to sing, I want to...

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 
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.


  1. Linda, if you enjoyed your Easter Sunday and did what you wanted, then it was perfect!

    1. Carol, it was thank you, added to which I beat Ted 6 games to 2.


  2. Only ONE piece of toast; is this will power, or are they huge pieces of toast?

    1. Morning Cro, only the size of a boules court.


  3. I admire your willpower Linda - one piece of toast! Ted, no butter though is another matter - I couldn't possibly have dry toast. You can only snuggle up for the day when the rain sets in and a fire is always a comfort. Were you reading through your scripts?

    1. Hi Jayne, Dry toast... men are funny aren't they! A friend's husband has six months of boiled eggs for breakfast, then the rest of the year fried eggs!

      We sang the songs. I wouldn't mind, I can't even sing, added to which the women I stand next to are all sopranos, whereas me...
      I'm like the pub singer, low and 20 'Capstan Full Strength' rough. I've nearly learnt all my ten lines though!