The oven died. Or rather, the oven killed the electricity. So I abandoned all plans to bake a new cake for Saturday morning’s elevenses, and instead my lovely local author and family were fed old(er) cake. But that worked too. The bonus being that with the oven out of commission, all the other things worked. Kettle. Christmas tree lights. And so on.
My hurty neck/shoulder continued bad. Daughter and I practised movements for me before the guests arrived. We decided that those sudden screams I emitted were likely to be off-putting, so I dug out another chair to sit in that was virtually scream-free.
We talked books, which is a very nice thing to do. The men are so old and so local that they were able to converse about yeast in Menstrie in the olden days, and that sort of thing. Avalanches in the Ochils. Slide rules.
And I have been promised (I see it more as a threat, actually) a walk in a dark, disused railway tunnel.