Vermin.

There's a mouse in our kitchen. The cat stares at the fridge for days and days. She is a weird cat, but I hear distinctly mousey sounds. Down with the torch behind the sideboard I go. 'Oh hai', says Ratty the Fucking Enormous Mouse. 'Thanks for the feast.' Ratty is winning the stand-off with cat. Ratty must go! I order a humane trap to catch him - avoiding the poison given that the kid and the cat are also prone to feasting on floor pie. The Boy thinks it's fine for Ratty to stay. He is wrong.

There's a bat in the farm house. I don't mind him. I like his squished-up face. The Boy says, 'What if he's a vampire and creeps into your bed in the night and sucks your blood?' I know he won't. He'd just nestle in for a snuggle, like the one I found curled into the jumper I left on the floor next to the bed one night. Batty.

There's a biter in my family. This is what I get for saying I'd rather not get up at 5.46am and totter around the paddocks in the 7-degree dark.

Broken skin, if you please. Little beastie.

Anatomy of a birthday.

I slept in. (For two miraculous mornings, the kid woke up at 7.00. Back to his old tricks today, though. 5.30am. Sigh.)
I was hugged a great deal by my pathologically affectionate child.

(Here are his knees.)

I was taken out to lunch by a very dashing gent.
I got so many Facebook messages my phone died, twice.
I did not make dinner.
I did make cake. And then I ate it.
The end.

Word.

Well hello there, post-Easter pimples. Nice to see you again. I'm not sure why I think a four-day sugar binge will result in anything but breakouts and diabetes comas, but I seem to do it every year. I do rather love a Lindt Dark Bunny breakfast. The trick is not to eat both the bunny and countless little Cadbury hunting eggs in the same 24-hour period. Holy Confused Secular Symbolism, Batman, those tiny nuggets are The Best. (I may or may not have purchased two more bags of them from the half price remains section in the supermarket yesterday.) The Boy has a rule that you have to stop when your pile of foil wrappers can be rolled into a ball bigger than an actual egg. A wise man. It's a shame I don't listen to him.

In other news, lucky I was lying down in bed yesterday morning when the kid wanted me to sing to him in the pre-dawn gloom. 'Row boat!', he said. Followed by 'love you', 'radio' and later on, 'apple'. BAM! We're talking.

Buns up.

 

Pretty, pretty, pretty good. From the ol' trotski & ash standby. Kicking Delia (and Nigella - c'mon, rising in the fridge? No.) to the kerb, three years in a row.

A very good Friday.

This is the first Easter in one hundred thousand years when The Boy hasn't been away doing aikido. We are making the most of it. 

Sunrise at the farm.

#51

I very much like the light in this one.

Walking practice, dressed as Patrick Swayze. Or maybe Rocky. Cue 'Eye of the Tiger' montage.

Making hot cross buns in the warm, stormy night.