The ice-rink that surrounded us on all sides finally retreated this week to reveal water hazards and blown pipes that flashed back to ice as the temperature plummeted again after dark. During our last snowfall on Thursday night there was enough ground cover for my dear darling husband to snowboard all the way down the garden, trudge back up and slide back down again for half an hour before he limped in with a twisted knee after the inevitable minor injury.
The garden is now swimming in mud and walking across the divide to the in-laws' last night each footstep crunched then squelched as our footfalls broke the icy crust and sank into the sucking mud beneath. Having gingerly crackled our way to the relative safety of the hard-standing I was startled by the spectre of a ghostly shape loping across the lawn in a fluid charge of alarming speed; a charge that ended with the idiot greyhound belonging to the in-laws taking me out at the knees in abject adoration and greeting me in a jubilant display of affection and a terrifying lack of anything vaguely resembling a brain.
Having herded FIL out of the house and into the car we careened down the toboggan run that has replaced the road and had a splendid meal at the Olde Dog. The evening was enlivened with the usual stories of past indiscretions followed by FIL's assertion that the mash was crap. This was delivered to the poor waitress alongside the statement that he hates mash anyway except when MacDonalds use Smash to thicken their milkshakes. . . one of his core beliefs that I still hotly dispute but cannot disprove.
Following an extended and bloody internal struggle against temptation I capitulated and ordered the home-made apple pie and ice-cream. Knowing it was my husband's birthday the chef kindly provided us with two enormous slabs of pie; soft, sweet apple slices in a thick, rich puree surrounded by stunning pastry. The apple on my plate steamed as it met a riven flow of molten ice-cream in an unholy union of all things wonderful whilst the husband's portion was sadly rendered foul and inedible (to me at least) by the stinking, foetid, non-newtonian layer of yellow evil commonly known as custard smothering the life out of it (yuck).
So today has been a lazy one as my digestion continues to ponder just how much apple pie it is safe to eat in one sitting. Far too much pc time was broken only to prepare a sumptuous stew for our dinner and for the delightful spectacle of the Wales England rugby. . .
REJECTION KILLS. DISAPPOINTMENT ONLY MAIMS - ABBY BARNES, THE TRUTH ABOUT CATS AND DOGS
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment