Squill

Am officially sick as a parrot.  Now taking positively Victorian sounding extract of squill (something to do with bluebells) in a nasty linctus.  Anything to stop me coughing fit to clear a room at twenty paces.  Have GP appointment tomorrow if the squill don't do it.

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MP and Little B were here over the weekend, which was delightful.  Dug for worms in the back garden; found secret worlds at Kenwood (when you're only a couple of feet high, slipping under fences and barriers is effortless, isn't it?)

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And either the cat is too delapidated to run at the first sight of young B, or B is finally of an age to be recognised as human not dog by the cat.  So they co-existed, if warily, for the first time.

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My precious nun who slithered so gracefully from her perch tells me there's a no-knead bread I can make with my Polish bargain yeast - recipe invented for 1950's busy housewives to encourage them to get back in the kitchen and damn well stay there.

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There's a complicated story to do with Alistair Darling's eyebrows which will have to wait;  I'm due at Nursey's.   All rest today.  No writing group.  xx