Yet again I am indulging in luxury, writing in bed still with a wonderful lovely lady of whom one could never be bored, well not and live anyway.
Today she assures me I desperately want to go to the Sunday market. The children are displaying considerably more enthusiasm than they did for log choping and I am taking consolation that whilst I remove my collection of aching joints and painfull muscles to the sunday market they are not being required to lift a chainsaw or wield an axe.
Perfecto, my step son, has with lift in prospect emerged from the woodwork with the same speed that he disappeared into it when it became apparent there was hard physical work to be done yesterday.
Of course this is just the morning, the afternoon has yet to be planned or rather I have yet to be told what I want to do.
R
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