Lurking about the house on a Sunday mornings is one of the paramount pleasures on life, and I’ve only found it more fun since I moved back in with the APs. 7am snuggles with the Pig, then sloping downstairs for coffee and the papers with dad, then oodles of lying about in heaps waiting for lunch. Today R has demanded Lego construction in spades, and I’ve already built a twee cottage with a garden, a monkey in the tree and a cup of coffee on the windowledge. R immediately annexed my creation, saying he could pep it up a bit, and hey ho, it transmogrified into a spaceship. With a garden and a monkey in the tree! Very Iain M Banks.
We were out last night at the village Harvest Supper, where we fed 70 hungry locals a combination of casserole, baked potatoes and lovely squodgy puddings washed down by altogether too much wine. It was Full Moon last night too, a beautiful windless evening and possibly the last soft night of the year. I walked home at 10pm in the pitch dark, with R lighting my way with his little torch, and listened to the leaves crunching underfoot, where last week they were still on the trees. The colours are coming out in the leaves more and more, as successive cold nights kill them, stripping the translucent slides of colour one by one as the chemicals leach and break away.
Today is pot roast (it’s been cooking for 12 hours now, on low), roast potatoes, swede and leeks, followed by chocolate fondant puddings and cream. A real rib-sticker. We had the great news last evening that the village Bonfire Party will be going ahead this year, at the bottom of the hill in the Tree Field – cue mulled cider, sparklers and wassail. I can hear the wind fretting round the eves and I’m getting that cosy feeling that all warm-blooded animals know – the simple pleasure of being out of the wind and dry. Perhaps I’m thinking, at some deep level of my brain, about hibernating. Well, if I am I’d better stop – all the best times of the year happen between now and the spring.