I am having such a splendid life.
I keep reading that Boris has naughtily fiddled the figures that he used to enforce our current compulsory holiday, and guiltily hoping that he does not care enough to change his mind.
Perhaps he wanted a holiday as well.
I am doing so many nice things.
I made a cheesecake today, because last night we had our first cooked dinner for ages and ages. When we had finished there wasn’t any pudding, so we had some more dinner instead. This seemed to be a waste of good dinner, to be eating it just because it is nice, so today I made some pudding to have instead of second helpings.
I have made pineapple and spiced rum cheesecake. Basically you cut the peel off the pineapple and cut some chunks off it, then you liquidise it with some rum and ginger, and chuck the lot into the cheesecake mix.
I should not have licked the bowl out. I had not had any breakfast at that point, and it made me feel a little light headed. Also I wished that I had left more in the bowl, how disappointed in my grown up self my six year old self would have been.
I had some pineapple left, so I thought I would have a go at making crystallised fruit. You might recall that I saw a very pretty and desirable box of this during our visit to the House of Bruar a couple of weeks ago, back in the days when people were allowed to wander around unnecessary retail, gazing hungrily at cashmere sweaters and sheepskin slippers and boxes of crystallised fruits wrapped in scarlet ribbon.
I had got pineapple and kiwi fruit, so I looked on the mighty Internet for instructions.
Readers, a recipe for crystallised fruit is a recipe for diabetes.
The fruit is the smallest part of the recipe. The rest of the recipe is buckets of corn syrup, sugar and honey.
The fruit is merely the vehicle for converting several pounds of sugar into several pounds of fat, which will then live on my bottom for all eternity.
I made some anyway, since I had started, and think that probably I will just use it to add to cakes instead of sugar. The rest of the fruit, most of which is the annual glut of apples, will just be dried on the top of the stove as usual.
Any cooking involving that much sugar is messy to clear up, and it was. It left me feeling horribly sticky, even after I had washed my hands up to my elbows and my face into the bargain, how proud of me our beloved leader would have been. I did not sing Happy Birthday because I was listening to the story on the computer and did not want to interrupt, but I made a jolly good effort. There are still sticky patches on my T-shirt and jeans. I do not think I will do it again in a hurry.
Apart from such domestic trivia I have not really achieved great things. I feel as though I ought to be writing a masterfully plotted novel, or possibly painting a work of great brilliance, but actually I have emptied the dogs a couple of times and pegged the washing in the yard. I do not care. I am having the loveliest, happiest life, and think that the world is a splendid place.
The picture is of some toadstools on our morning dog-emptying expedition. The weather was so beautifully autumnal and still that I have been longing to get back out and walk. I managed a couple of short outings this afternoon, but tomorrow we might go up the fell, if only the weather holds, and walk off the crystallised fruit.
I think I have got the perfect life.
