Rhubarb, rhubarb

This morning, I picked the first harvest of rhubarb from my Mother's garden. It grows so well that the neighbours always get given some, too. (They claim to love it...) 
It was a beautiful morning: sunny, warm, and only a light breeze, so Doris (my Mother)  and I went for a walk in local woodland and then sowed some  Nasturtium seeds and did some other little gardening jobs.
Even the tortoise got up, sunbathed, and munched on a few dandelion leaves, before beating a retreat to his bed as rain clouds began to gather.
I planned to return home this afternoon but, during lunch, Doris experienced a dental problem- a crown fell out of her mouth!  She  phoned her dentist and, fortunately, they can fit her in tomorrow afternoon, but it means me staying an extra day to take her there.
This evening I made a crumble  with the rhubarb (see extra), and  we enjoyed a TV fest, firstly with Mr Portillo's railway adventures taking him to the home of the late, impossibly prolific, author Barbara Cartland, (723 books to her name), the Stevenage factory of  Allied Bakeries, and also the  Lea Valley Olympic park where he  capsized in a canoe.
This was followed by the Repair Shop, where miracles really do happen, and the Great British Sewing Bee's International Week, in which the brave contestants also try to make miracles happen, but are hampered by  punishing time  limits. Tonight they had to make a Breton top, create a garment out of  two sarongs, in 1 1/2 hours, and  then an outfit channelling  Frida Kahlo. What a nightmare!