Rambo has contentedly staked his claim on the bed. As the weather turns it - the bed - is contested territory. For the Cats' Mother, particularly, winter mummification is ahead.
I had a day in the office and ticked all my boxes. It's been a while since I have been able to do that. Among the items, a response from me regarding a potential six month job. Freelance, yes. And a proper one. So. Not jinxing anything so saying only that.
We also get our now customary delivery of duck eggs on a Thursday. Yesterday was no different so supper, and with the return of hit weather (yay!), was poached eggs and salad.
Hen and duck eggs on a bed of fresh parsley. A salad with the late tomatoes (just beginning) and which somehow, and so far, have managed to survive the guineafowl. Which seem to have flocked off. Mostly. Until next time.
Gandalf has not grown out of the shoe and foot fetish. The Husband's. Not mine. Then, instead of the bed, he curled up in the laundry basket: all freshly washed and which I discovered at about 4am. Evicting him wasn't smart: he came and welded himself to my neck. Until the alarm went off.
Now, it's kitchen day. It happens every week. On a Friday.
Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it's because I'm doing two things:
@artywink
@hive.blog and Canva.