Mrs monkey

As soon as she arrived in the house I had her pegged as a likely candidate for an emergency blip on one of those days. And it's been one of those for sure. Quite why she's landed up there between my pastry bird and Mr B's truffle shaver (I know...) is a mystery.

Mr B is *still* not speaking to me since I've 'turned' his kids royalist. Which is bizarre on too many levels to even know where to start.

Hacking at a jungle of brambles made me feel better, on a day when everything else I've done has been wrong. I need to find a metaphorical leaf deep inside myself and firmly and assertively turn it over. But for now, standard escapism beckons in the turning leaves of my book.

(Don't worry though, I'm fine. It's just what passes for normal around here grates occasionally.)