OK, people. I am resting. Not in the snow (we don’t have any) and not on this bench (it belongs to the neighbours). But I might have.
What I’m trying to say is, I have nothing interesting to say. I have holidayed (not counting the kitchen duties, the recycling or the laundry) and I watched Borgen with Daughter, in order to facilitate the start of season two next week. (What do you mean you didn’t know?) (She didn’t watch back when, but is busy remedying this dreadful state of affairs.)
So that took time. I read. Not much, but I will get through my book before too long. We just need to give up on all this Christmas food. The Resident IT Consultant and the Grandmother are doing jigsaws, and I am letting them.
Basically, I have been uncharacteristically laidback. Yesterday I only remembered I needed to make dinner when it was almost time to eat it. I’d overlooked the fact that it doesn’t jump into the oven and from there on to the table by itself. (I was about to say I wish it did, but that would actually be quite scary. If you can imagine.)
Did a good deed in amongst all this lazing about. The neighbours’ daughter needs to bake a ski lift this week and their electric whisk broke, so I lent them mine. Pardon, the one belonging to the Resident IT Consultant. I married him, as well as his whisk. It’s an antique.