Spring into my mouth please, little egg!

What I love about Spring is how unguarded it is. It just comes out. The audacious yellow of a daffodil, the unashamed splurge of a sow giving birth to slippery piglets, the exuberant "we just have to gambol RIGHT NOW" of lambs.

So I was in the David Hockney exhibition this weekend (fifth time- just like Spring I don't stop coming).

And my fingers started surreptitiously to stroke a cream egg nestled in my trench coat pocket. I walked through the second room, mind starting to wonder forward from the current set of retrospectives, to the prospect of cream egg that no doubt would befall me. I imagined how strong it would taste. How sweet. I was pretty sure I could smell it. Faintly as a crocus. But no less distinct.

As we came to the third room.. Yes, we. I had company. Besides the whole of a packed Saturday morning RA exhibition. As we came to the third room, the thought of a creme egg about to give birth to flavour became unbearable. I couldn't deny myself. I held up my large blue leather clutch ducking behind it, sank my teeth in. Eurgh, foil. Never mind. It was glorious. Spring had sprung!

Some people gave me a glance. Hmm, maybe they can tell. I'll pretend to look at the art. Oh, it's got a little too soft in my hot fingers now. Before I knew it it was everywhere. In my hair, on the paintings, in other people's hair. Spring had indeed come to the Royal Academy (twenty twelve). What shall I do???

In it went to the clutch. A few finger licks and I was restored. Shame about the inside of my bag. You could dip soldiers in that now!

You make me sick

Quite frankly, sometimes I do. I can't help it. I just eat too much for my washboard abs to cope with. Just like that Jack Nicholson/Diane Keaton film, something's gotta give.

So I had had a lovely lunch at Granny's in the countryside. Finished off with a small glass of red wine, and a bowl of chocolate roulade and double cream. Feeling utterly content I got into my car to make the 1.5 hr drive to my other Granny's. Who would have thought someone pretending so heavily to be in her 80s could ever do something like what happened next?

Ten minutes down the road I felt a little cough tickling my throat. Oh no. Not a cough. Hello roulade. Thought I'd left you in Great Maplestead village, not sitting

down my cream wool jumper and ice white jeans for the next hour on the motorway. Lucky my short term memory is abysmal so once I'd started planning what ice cream flavours my wedding buffet will serve* I forgot all about it.

*Not imminent. Remember my most recent boyfriend believed in conspiracy theories.

We've (bisc)Quit

After being shut in the basement of a so called workplace for the last ten months it's no wonder my puns are as shaky as my restraint damaged legs. I've been as abused as a binger's throat.

So to try and wipe this from my mind I traversed to Epping Forest with my very sweet colleague to set the world to rights, after eating all the biscuits and snacks her Mum had made/bought that week. I think I left the jammy dodgers and a chocolate covered brazil nut.

The cheesecake is made with ricotta and pine nuts and crumbly bits. I think it might be Russian in origin. Who knows? Both latter sentences may be entirely incorrect. Sometimes it's all my tongue can do to discern between sugar and something that I would spit out as it doesn't contain sugar.

Self Harmlloumi

Last night I was lying in bed listening to Alex and Tom moving out, feeling utterly miserable. So much in pain from the anxiety of it. Hmm. What can I do to release this pain? This is probably when people turn to self harm I pondered to myself, but I'm too lazy to even get up and find an instrument.

Could food help me find an outlet for my emotions? I knew I had some halloumi downstairs left over from dinner with Eleanor earlier in the evening. The saltiness would be a an emotional explosion on my tongue.. But still, too lazy to cheese self harm as I would need to go downstairs..

Luckily at that minute Jess came back from class and had brought me an easter egg to soften the blow. Right to my bed. What a good nurse. If only I could use that method when my anorexic patients want to cut themselves. I guess no takers?

We're finishing our chocolate now whilst silently screaming at screechy women viewing our house. Yes, it has got great storage space. Yes, the garden will be lovely in Summer. NOW TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF OUR CREAM CARPET!

Mother Mash

Bought this new jeans the other day that make me look like a cool Mum. You know the sort. Not so tight that they leave red welts on my thighs. Not sexy. Easy to wash if got baby sick on them. Or Fran sick. Magenta coloured too. I'm wild.

Suddenly I'm 35 going for a walk with my Bugaboo pram and a cashmere sweater.

In a very accepting way I slipped on the loose fit jean of responsibility and took my Mum for an adventure to see the new Hockney exhibition, via a pie and mash shop. Don't worry we were proper Mums later with tea and cake. Anyway, I had a chicken and leek pie, champ mash, and bacon and red wine gravy. I like to mix my meats as I do my metaphors.

Aargh as I'm writing this some weird people are viewing my home to replace me like big fat cuckoos. My creative juices have been stifled by their cackles of delight. No more potato paradise. I'm in moving hell. Bye for now. I need to go to have a cry.

Whizhard soup, Sparkles!

Arrgh! Help! Dani! I'm drowning. Gurgle gurgle. Would have been my reaction to swimming this morning on a hangover and four hours sleep, if it wasn't for the fortitude of my rock hard massive muscles keeping me afloat.

Oh sorry that's not me. I got mixed up with my hot but dim ex boyfriend. Last mention I promise.

I luckily had a child's flotation aid under my stomach to keep me from drowning during 30 minutes of light exercise in the slow lane.

Utterly spent, Dani and I forced our weak kindling legs back to dry land where Sparkles was waiting for us with some home made sweet potato soup that he'd just whizzed up. He really does shine as brightly as a star. A beacon, one could say, for our tired hearts.

Unfortunately, as Dani and I attempted to doze on the sofa post lunch, we remembered the promise we'd earlier made to Sparks. "Yes, of course we will make an igloo with you later. Now hurry up and make our soup in time for us to get back from swimming."

Hmm. So Mum1 and Mum2 dragged themselves out to the park with Sparkles and somehow made an igloo. It was really loads of fun apart from Mum1 (Dani) had ironically been most unMum and not brought gloves so her fingers were nearly frostbitten off. In a very Mum way this of course meant it was soon time to go home for tea and cake.

A lovely day xxxx

Hampered on Hampstead

"I had a busy weekend. First I stayed at home. Then I went to bed". Not really. That's just what children in Tom's class write in their homework weekend reports. That I like to read to feel better about myself.

I actually had a winter picnic this weekend (again by this read months ago). It was loads of fun.

We had some very heavy bread. We were quite cross at Mark for buying it at first as we wanted a classic picnic baguette.

What stick in the muds in clean desert boots we were! It was actually DElicious. Although our wrists were a little sore after. Chaz couldn't even hold it to her mouth it was so heavy...

We married this ever so heavy bread with ham and cheese, with sides of grapes, yoghurts, and a big dose of moaning about the cold weather. Then Chaz and I got lost because we weren't following the boys every motion. But it turned out alright in the end as we found the pub and got very drunk.

THE END

I hope Mr Boreman gives me a level 5 at least for this!