We’ve been decorating again. We ruin every holiday with trips to Wickes, Ikea and the Dulux Decorator centre. I worry that the boys will only have memories of misery amongst DIY tools from their childhood. That and being asked not to touch the baked goods as they’re for work.
I can’t stop for long. I’m off to London. I have one of those small, annoying wheely cases packed full to the brim with brownies, candles and small bottles of inferior toiletries reserved usually for hand luggage only flights. I’ve had to bring them out of retirement given my bag is 78% sugar and shoes.
Friends of ours are about to have their first baby. We actually introduced them in a slightly aggressive way, so sure were we that they’d hit it off. This is the second match I have been involved in that has resulted in marriage. I reckon if this whole recipe thing goes wrong then I have a future in matchmaking.
Well this is embarrassing. I promised that this recipe would be up on the blog in November. Seems I am out by a few months. Gosh, we’re even into a new year.
Look, I’m not anti diet. Goodness knows I’ve been on enough of them myself. I’m just anti people going on a diet in January. For one, it’s cold so really not the time of year to be cutting the calories and swapping hearty comfort food for salad. Secondly (and this is my real, selfish reason), it’s my birthday month and I have had it up to here with people making excuses:
Christmas. It’s all about carols, selection boxes and Mary Poppins, no?
No. It’s all about reverting to type. And what I mean by that is regressing to your inner child and channelling the family caricature from your youth.
Look away if you were all done in January, your presence is not required. Go and be smug in the corner. The rest of you, pull up a seat, grab a cup of tea, (hell, why not a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie?) have your credit card at the ready and relax in the knowledge that these are all recommendations I have used and loved. The baker in your life might appreciate them under the tree too.
So we’re back from an Italian mini break and we went and exhausted ourselves again. We never learn. We have three kids, both work hard, don’t have a cleaner or a lady who ‘does’; what I’m getting at is that we’re pretty stretched most of the time. Getting away together for two days is a big deal. It’s time to not look at the ironing pile, time to ignore the washing machine bleeping, time to not change a nappy or find a PE kit.
Oh how we love The Hungry Caterpillar in this house. It’s surely the perfect children’s book. Delicious treats? Tick. Gluttony? Tick. Magical transformation? Tick. Delightful words. Tick. Pokability? Tick. And those illustrations? Triple tick. We just love it.
So to hear that Eric Carle was publishing a book about surrealism, called, quite obviously The Nonsense Show, well, we had to try it out. (Yes, my sons are born of one art graduate and one would-be art graduate).
I want to talk about marriage. I know, I know. You just want me for my coconut buttercream recipe – just scroll down, go on, do it. But just in case you’re intrigued, well, I got to thinking recently about what makes a marriage. Look, it’s not like I’m some expert. I’ve only been married for 7 years and I reckon we’ve argued for a good year of it. What do I know?
Holly Bell 