Friday 6th March 2026
After a mini spell of sunny weather, we’re back to cold and wet here in my portion of Old Blighty. It was nice while it lasted. I managed to get a few jobs done in the garden. I cleaned out some plants pots ready for new plants. I cleaned out the greenhouses, made up some seed trays, and had a pick and potter among the borders, tidying them up here and there, seeing what’s coming through. The snowdrops are done, and crocuses are fading, but daffs and tulips are starting to bloom, and shrubs and trees are budding, so actual spring is defo on the way. Soon it’ll be that time of year when us Brits will be whinging about how hot it is. It’s in our DNA. We have weather whinging genes that are unique to these isles.
Given the crappy weather, I’ve focussed on indoor pursuits today. I’ve done a shitload of housework and also baked two types of cake ready for the weekend. Date and Walnut loaf - Dick’s favourite. Victoria sponge - Shane’s favourite. I’m a greedy bastard. I like both.
Given the state of the kitchen whenever I’ve indulged in cake craft I sometimes wonder if I have ADHD. The place always looks like a bomb site with multiple bowls, spoons and mess everywhere, including on me. I can’t seem to focus on one thing at a time. I start making one thing and break off halfway through to make a start on another. I choose one bowl to mix in, and decide it isn’t suitable, heaving half mixed ingredients into another. I then decide to have a brew and scroll something on my phone, usually wandering off into another room. It’s chaos. Still, I get there, and usually my bakes turn out okay, barring the ones I burn because I get distracted and forget to check the oven. I managed to avoid any conflagration today.
On the domestic front, there’s been a wee bit of tension in the air, nothing massive, just everyday kind of tensions. Dick’s cold did the rounds, and it was his turn to tut under his breath when coughing drowned out the sound on the telly.
Shane is working harder than ever just now. He’s supposed to be slowing down, and sometimes he pays lip service to doing so, maybe even puts it into practice for a while, but soon enough his hours increase again. He’s addicted. It’s who he is.
Dick loves his work too, but has been forced to slow down because of troublesome carpal tunnel syndrome in his right hand. He’s had it off and on for some time, but lately it’s flared and been constant. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard of being a designer, draughtsman and artist. He’s been advised that an op is needed to relieve the painful symptoms on a more permanent basis. Dick throws a fanny fit at the thought of going to the dentist for a check-up, so God knows how he’ll cope with having his wrist sliced into under local anaesthetic.
He’s currently pretending his hand isn’t bothering him too much. It’s bullshit. He broke a pain sweat trying to slather marmalade on his toast this morning. I offered to help, but he crabbily accused me of fussing, so I told him to fucking suffer then. After unsuccessfully trying to marmalade his toast using his left hand, he silently handed me the knife. He is on codeine for the pain, but it constipates him, and you know Dick and his bowels, he gets in a fluster if he can’t muster on a morning at the designated time. It’s a pain or poop dilemma for us all. As Shane said, darkly, we’ve been through enough codeine induced toilet tension with Dick (when he knacked his elbow) and he’s having the fucking op whether he likes it or not, if only for our sanity.
So, on that shit note, I’ll say au revoir. I’m off to clag some jam and cream between my fresh baked sponges, and you can make what you will of that, I know Dick would if he was home, and in less pain. Ciao for now, peeps.
After a mini spell of sunny weather, we’re back to cold and wet here in my portion of Old Blighty. It was nice while it lasted. I managed to get a few jobs done in the garden. I cleaned out some plants pots ready for new plants. I cleaned out the greenhouses, made up some seed trays, and had a pick and potter among the borders, tidying them up here and there, seeing what’s coming through. The snowdrops are done, and crocuses are fading, but daffs and tulips are starting to bloom, and shrubs and trees are budding, so actual spring is defo on the way. Soon it’ll be that time of year when us Brits will be whinging about how hot it is. It’s in our DNA. We have weather whinging genes that are unique to these isles.
Given the crappy weather, I’ve focussed on indoor pursuits today. I’ve done a shitload of housework and also baked two types of cake ready for the weekend. Date and Walnut loaf - Dick’s favourite. Victoria sponge - Shane’s favourite. I’m a greedy bastard. I like both.
Given the state of the kitchen whenever I’ve indulged in cake craft I sometimes wonder if I have ADHD. The place always looks like a bomb site with multiple bowls, spoons and mess everywhere, including on me. I can’t seem to focus on one thing at a time. I start making one thing and break off halfway through to make a start on another. I choose one bowl to mix in, and decide it isn’t suitable, heaving half mixed ingredients into another. I then decide to have a brew and scroll something on my phone, usually wandering off into another room. It’s chaos. Still, I get there, and usually my bakes turn out okay, barring the ones I burn because I get distracted and forget to check the oven. I managed to avoid any conflagration today.
On the domestic front, there’s been a wee bit of tension in the air, nothing massive, just everyday kind of tensions. Dick’s cold did the rounds, and it was his turn to tut under his breath when coughing drowned out the sound on the telly.
Shane is working harder than ever just now. He’s supposed to be slowing down, and sometimes he pays lip service to doing so, maybe even puts it into practice for a while, but soon enough his hours increase again. He’s addicted. It’s who he is.
Dick loves his work too, but has been forced to slow down because of troublesome carpal tunnel syndrome in his right hand. He’s had it off and on for some time, but lately it’s flared and been constant. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard of being a designer, draughtsman and artist. He’s been advised that an op is needed to relieve the painful symptoms on a more permanent basis. Dick throws a fanny fit at the thought of going to the dentist for a check-up, so God knows how he’ll cope with having his wrist sliced into under local anaesthetic.
He’s currently pretending his hand isn’t bothering him too much. It’s bullshit. He broke a pain sweat trying to slather marmalade on his toast this morning. I offered to help, but he crabbily accused me of fussing, so I told him to fucking suffer then. After unsuccessfully trying to marmalade his toast using his left hand, he silently handed me the knife. He is on codeine for the pain, but it constipates him, and you know Dick and his bowels, he gets in a fluster if he can’t muster on a morning at the designated time. It’s a pain or poop dilemma for us all. As Shane said, darkly, we’ve been through enough codeine induced toilet tension with Dick (when he knacked his elbow) and he’s having the fucking op whether he likes it or not, if only for our sanity.
So, on that shit note, I’ll say au revoir. I’m off to clag some jam and cream between my fresh baked sponges, and you can make what you will of that, I know Dick would if he was home, and in less pain. Ciao for now, peeps.