The festival is finished, the church has been undecorated, except for the flowers and the treasurer is counting the takings (well, if I were she, I’d leave it until after dinner). I have the tub and hanging basket competition to count the votes for of (sort out the grammar yourselves, darlings, will you?) and then there will be the prize draw of the voting slips, because we have such generous sponsors that we can give a prize for everything.
Dinner is cooking – I wrapped a pork fillet (tenderloin, if that’s how you know it) in bacon and shoved it in the oven, scrubbed some spuds and put them on to boil, cut up an out-of-season (Lord knows what country it came from) butternut squash and rubbed it with olive oil and bunged that in the oven, rejected the idea of picking veggies out of the garden and got some sweetcorn out of the freezer instead (total convenience food tonight, you see). Then, and only then … 0:-) … I opened a chilled bottle of wine and poured myself a glassful.
Ooh, and I arrived home to find a verbal invitation to a wedding next month. I’d known it was happening ages ago and knew we were to be invited, and that sort of relaxed attitude is fine by me. It’s the sister of the girl whose wedding I went to in Madras three and a half years ago. This time, it won’t be in India – booo!!(!) – although 6 weeks notice might be pushing it for that I suppose, possibly, especially as I will have a very small new grandbaby by then – just as well, I’d be so sorely tempted, however hot it is out there in August. Anyway, I rang back, gave Auntie my address and we’ll have a written invitation next week.
Right. I expect dinner’s about cooked. You see how much I care? I write to you before I eat. Greater love hath no Z than this.