The last time I was in France, the heavens opened up and I was straining my eyes to see ahead of the car through the teaming rain. This time, it seemed, I was in for more of the same. Except, of course, we were in a train which was travelling so fast that the rain drops didn’t touch it.

We had a pretty easy morning, watching the last vestiges of Beatrice and Eugenie’s self esteem being whittled away by the news gathering masses – actually, to be fair, the BBC didn’t say anything about their atrocious choice of wedding outfits, preferring to rave about the more human choices from the ranks of guests. I am not as nice. They clearly have no mirrors at home.

We eventually ordered a cab to take us to St Pancras where we joined the hordes of French people returning to the Continent after the wedding. Actually that is a huge assumption based on the fact that there were a lot of French people at the station.

Speaking of which, our carriage was full (well, half full) of teenage French schoolies. I was a bit concerned that they would be overly generous with their jollity but they were actually very well behaved. The group of four just across the aisle from us were doing some sort of test – they had a page of English from which they were answering questions in French. They had completed the page by the time we arrived in Paris.

Sitting opposite us was a gopher and a bald chap of very little language. I wonder how it would be to have permanently displayed teeth. Surely they’d get all dry and the inside of your lip would stick to them. I tried it for a bit. I didn’t like it. Anyway, the gopher was Australian and her travelling companion was a bit sub-human. I say that because he was only able to talk in grunts and the occasional click of his phone camera.

We have tried to work out their relationship. The best we can come up with is travelling companions off to meet a mutual friend. Or maybe she’s not very good at chatting guys up. We’ll never know and, to be honest, I really don’t care.

We arrived at Paris Nord dead on time with the sun streaming down and the sky blue as blue can be. Our carriage was about three miles down the platform so it took a while to leave the station and begin the hike to Paris Est. It was during this hike that the heavens, clearly in a fit of pique at having missed me at the border, opened up and giant raindrops fell upon us as we walked, watching our bright shadows caused by the brilliant sunshine that also fell upon our heads. It was all a bit weird and, for me, an indication of its supernatural origin.

We found Paris Est easily enough and stood watching the indicator board for trains to Zurich. We had a 40 minute wait which was taken up by looking for a loo and aimless wandering, sometimes both at the same time.

Paris Gare de l'Est

Mirinda has decided she’s just following me around this trip, wanting nothing to do with any decision making or worry about travel. This explains why she waited until we were on the train to tell me she wasn’t sure we were on the correct one. The seats we grabbed were so good, I wasn’t moving, wherever the train was going.

The Zurich train was leaving from platform 2 and Mirinda though we were on platform 1 – little did she know that platform 1 is like the Hogwarts platform at Kings Cross – but fortunately I had all well in hand and we sat down, right near the bar with single seats opposite each other and a table between. Fantastic for a long trip, which, at 5 and a half hours, this was.

Mirinda's seat from Paris to Zurich

We left on time from Paris, racing across the French countryside at high speed (the TGV trains are fantastic) heading for Switzerland. The X-Files theme playing every time there’s a train announcement is a bit off-putting, particularly when Mirinda keeps insisting it’s actually the beginning of Love and Marriage.

Dinner was lamb sausages in cheesy mash potatoes except they’d slipped a bit with the cheese so it was potatoey mashed cheese. Very naughty when we could have had salad. Had a can of Pelforth even though the barman tried to sell me a ghastly Heineken which we all know is the only beer available at the London Olympics. Not that I’m obsessed or anything. And, for dessert, a packet of Bretzels. That’s not a misprint. They were Bretzels as evidenced by the packet.

Bretzels and beer on a French train in Switzerland

They tasted remarkably like pretzels, I have to say.

We went through an enormous thunderstorm but arrived safely in Strasbourg. We sat at the platform for a little bit before heading south until we reached Basel, Switzerland, Nicktor’s second home.

And finally, Zurich at 11pm. Exactly 11pm. Typically Swiss. We left the train and walked the ten minutes to the hotel and checked in. The receptionist kindly informed me that we had been upgraded to a superior room (I have no idea why but I wasn’t about to ask just in case she changed her mind).

The room was excellent. There was even a coffee machine. Not a kettle but a proper espresso machine. Just the kind I want. And the coffee was excellent. Just like the room. This little box of pleasure was waiting for us with a note telling us to enjoy our stay.

Special little box of pleasure

While today was a public holiday, it wasn’t really the beginning of our holiday as we stayed in Canary Wharf and do not leave until tomorrow. We went for a lovely long walk after watching the TV for what felt like an entire wedding.

We walked all around Mill Quay. Although certainly not hot, and with only occasional appearances by dear old Sol, it was still pleasant walking weather. The best thing was the almost complete absence of other people. Apparently they were all on the other side of London.

We did spot some of the inhabitants but they looked a bit like this…

Some sort of gull resting on the marina

There was also a group of around six male ducks chasing one female duck. The males were gradually reduced until only two remained, both wanting the female, who remained aloof and unconcerned throughout the entire rout. The most aggressive one stayed close to her tail as the other chap floated a bit further away, clearly intent on a surprise attack.

He pretended he was very interested in a massive swan that was floating by but this didn’t fool the other duck. He was on the other duck before he realised what had hit him (the aggressive duck’s webbed feet) sending him flying away.

Leaving the ducks to bill and coo and kiss on a balcony, we checked out a few possible river flats for Mirinda to move into next year as we wandered along the remaining part of the Thames Path. This ended at the massive building site near Canary Wharf Pier so we turned right and went for a late lunch.

There were a number of options for lunch/dinner but Mirinda decided we should try the pizza place that was closed last week when we were forced to be largely ignored at Cafe Rouge.

I’m glad we did. Lovely pizza, lovely beer and a great practice run before tomorrow.

Just outside the pizza place is this big statue of two big blokes sitting on a bench. I thought it good enough to blip (I just blipped a head) and even more so to have here in my blog.

Statues outside Gourmet Pizza, Canary Wharf

It’s a bit hard to gauge the size in that photo so I took a shot of my hand on top of one of the statue’s.

Gaz hand on giant hand

After lunch we went to Waitrose to do some linen shopping (the Waitrose at Canary Wharf is full of everything – it’s like Harrods only more reasonably priced…just) for the flat. Mirinda has been waiting for me to be with her so I can carry it all back to the flat. It’s because her arms are too long and the bags are too big.

It was a lovely easy day, just right as a prelude to tomorrow and the start of our multiple train rides.

I’m not going to discuss the wedding that’s on tomorrow (I figure enough people will be doing that from all angles and with all sorts of agendas) so I’ll get it all out of system today instead.

This morning on Breakfast, they talked to a couple who run the local shop near where Catherine Middleton’s family lives. Apparently it is the shop she goes to when she fancies a chocolate bar. They also mentioned that William has been in for an ice cream or two.

Of course, this could have all just been one of those ho hum obscure brushes with celebrity, like the programme on Channel Four last week where Middletons from all over the woodwork came out to proclaim that they knew Kate when she was nothing but a tiny tyke with a dummy. I heard a revolting woman with short red hair saying how she was Catherine’s 3rd cousin (or something obscure) and how she could just as easily have married William, blah, blah, blah.

Actually they met at university and this woman sounded like she hadn’t managed to get passed primary school so probably not.

Anyway…the piece on Breakfast this morning was nothing like that, after all. The couple (they seemed like lovely, normal people) had had a surprise a while ago when a letter arrived for them. It was an invitation to attend the wedding. A real one! They showed it to the camera. They were so pleased, she had travelled all the way into London to buy a special sari for the occasion.

They really were a lovely couple. The reporter was a moron but you come to expect that.

Having heard about the shop and the invite, we were then taken to Sian standing outside Westminster Abbey, freezing her knees off in the wind – it was a tad chilly first thing this morning. Arrayed at her feet (actually she was on a raised platform) were scores of insane people who had been camped on the footpath for the last 24 hours.

Now I can understand some people wanting to be there to witness an event of this size (possibly so they can say to their grand kids they were there or perhaps because they have no friends) but what I cannot understand is how that justifies voluntarily sleeping rough for 48 hours.

I mean, where are they going to the toilet? Are they showering? Does someone mind their spot if they need to go and buy food? Like I say, totally beyond me.

But there was none of that hanging about on street corners for me today. I had to get the poodles to the kennel, mow the lawn, go to the Talking Newspaper, clean the house and then make my way to the flat in preparation for our impending anniversary trip to Venice.

Mirinda claims the flat is part of our house. If this is the case then anyone who thinks our house is tiny is crazy. It took me two hours to get from the hallway to the fourth bedroom tonight.

Or so Mirinda said. She had a couple of meetings miles apart and barely time to register my presence. But before that…

She has decided to take her netbook away with us rather than the portable DVD player. This way she can load films/TV programmes onto the netbook and watch them through iTunes. All well and good and a lot less to carry when you consider the player AND the DVDs AND the fact that she’d probably bring the netbook anyway.

Trouble is, when we loaded something onto the netbook it didn’t render very well. It was all jerky and impossible to watch more than two seconds of content. It looked like it was going to be the extra suitcase full of technology unless I could do something miraculous.

So, stepping into a handy telephone booth I quickly changed into my secret disguise as Mr Fixitup and hightailed it up to Canary Wharf to secretly fix the netbook. Actually it wasn’t so quick. I spent a few hours last night working out what the problem was with the help of a few forums and techies that know stuff that I can only imagine. To be fair, I can’t even imagine most of it.

Arriving at the flat I immediately set to work (with the IPL cricket on in the background). It was a long, drawn out process (quite the opposite to the cricket) but I managed to fix it. And I take it back. As much as I hate all things Apple, it wasn’t their fault. It was the high spec of the netbook which needed taking down a peg or two in order to play the antique Apple generated files.

Meanwhile, Mirinda was starting a meeting which consisted of a ridiculous amount of individual five minute presentations with nary a breath for pausing. It was late starting and, eventually, late in ending. We had already planned an elaborate meeting which took ages to work out. The change in time merely meant I had longer to watch the cricket…I mean, fix the netbook. Which I did and then wandered across to South Quays station, where I hopped the DLR to meet her near the young ballerina sitting on her chair.

The view of the DLR tracks from South Quays station

This is the view from where I sat in the sun, reading and waiting.

A row of red telephone boxes

It was very pleasant, particularly as I was sitting beneath a rather scrawny but effective for all that, tree.

Eventually Mirinda met me with the rather irritated remark that our lunchtime would now consist of walking to her next meeting which was to be held in Portcullis House which is opposite the Houses of Parliament. She was meeting a man from the government to discuss something important (again, I am sworn to secrecy and all I can say is that it wasn’t David Cameron she was meeting).

The area around the Houses of Parliament is renowned for two main things: Firstly the crowds are always horrendous made worse by the ever present roadworks and, secondly, there’s very few places to eat. For starters, the Nero’s is so small it can only fit one bar stool in it and a barista. I guess they (the politicians) don’t want to encourage people to eat too much. What with the obesity levels the way they are.

For whatever reason, we ended up buying sandwiches from a girl in Boots who didn’t understand Mirinda when she asked if the building we were in was Portcullis House (it wasn’t). After Mirinda had left, the girl asked me what she’d said. After I repeated it, she was still no clearer.

We found Portcullis House and ate our sandwiches beneath one of it’s arches before I left Mirinda to enter the heavy security through which she had to pass to reach her top secret meeting. She tells me that during the meeting a loud horn went off and all the ministers jumped up and ran out, yelling over their shoulders that they had to get to the House and vote. Given the crowds out on the street, I can only assume they have a secret passage.

And then I went home (after picking up a certain fridge magnet that a certain person asked me pick up). And that was it. Mirinda has since apologised for being irritated. I told her she was a lot better than she was in her last job. It think that made her feel a whole lot better. And, by the way, she thought the person she met with wasn’t up to much.

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And just a glimpse of what Nicktor’s week in Germany was like. He tells me he drank the beer first.

I can safely say, without fear of contradiction that hornbeam blossom cannot be cleared away with a broom. It has a sort of magnet thing going on. As a broom approaches, it flies away in the opposite direction. Clearly this is an evolutionary attribute. The seed, in danger of being swept into a bin has evolved to move away until the broom gets bored and sweeps up something a little more substantial, like dust.

Fortunately man has evolved a thing called a vacuum cleaner. Hornbeam blossom doesn’t stand a chance against even the softest of suction. Of course, one has to be careful about releasing the prey back into the wild upon the opening of the vacuum cleaner for emptying purposes as this can reverse all the good work. It’s quite amusing to watch them all scatter as soon as a whiff (not even a whiff; a mini-whiff is enough) of air touches them. Two hands just aren’t enough to catch them all.

I am, however, no broom and easily bored by a flighty prey, and like the hunter that we all are, deep down in our tribal memory banks, I sucked it all up again. Given that man can reason and has a quite handy memory, I could then be very, very careful the next time I opened up the cage.

But enough of such nonsense…today was mostly spent cleaning up (and not just blossom though there was an awful lot of it which, fortunately, hadn’t taken seed) with a phone call to mum and dad, a bit of shopping and a walk in the park thrown in.

Speaking of the park…I snapped these two photos of the poodles looking gorgeous and do not see any reason why I should keep them to myself.

Day-z the Proud

Carmen the Cutie

This is the view from where we had intended to have dinner tonight.

The view from the outside seats at Cafe Rouge, Canary Wharf

I say ‘intended’ but we ended up inside. When we arrived there were quite a few people eating outside so we figured they would serve us as well. Some guys were even wearing shorts and t-shirts like me so we knew there was no dress code. Anyway, out of politeness, we asked an older chap who looked like the manager if we could sit outside and he said “sure” (or something like ‘sure’ – it was hard to tell as he mumbled and didn’t look at you when he spoke). We ordered drinks after he gave us the menus and he left.

After a while we wondered whether anyone would take our order. We gave all the right signals and there was a bunch of them standing by the door at various times but no-one seemed to want our business. Eventually we moved inside where we had to ask to be served.

Again we were served by the older chap. We ordered dinner which he didn’t write down and subsequently got wrong and chuckled about it. Obviously they do a roaring trade and therefore have no need to actually serve Monday night stragglers. There was a table of four not far from us who were getting the same sort of service as we were. Not a lot.

The reason we were eating at Canary Wharf was because we decided to take our luggage to the flat for our Italian trip. We don’t leave till Saturday but we thought it smarter to leave from the flat. We left home after lunch and had an almost uneventful train and tube trip. It was ‘almost’ because the tube train decided to stop in the tunnel for what seemed like hours (to Mirinda) but was actually about five minutes (in real time).

Most of the morning was spent washing clothes and packing, trying to fit it all into one suitcase. I’ve come to the conclusion that Mirinda always packs to the size of the suitcase plus half. We wanted to try and limit our luggage this trip as we’ll be going by train and it just makes it easier to move around from city to city. So we decided to use the big silver one. When we’d finished, we had the silver suitcase plus a smaller case. So, one plus a half.

Next time we try this, I’m going to go for the three quarter size suitcase we have, knowing that Mirinda will fill this and then have a ‘half’ pile beside it. I will then pack it all into the silver suitcase. As long as she forgets this post, I’m betting it will work.

Anyway, we eventually had our meal (lovely as usual) but decided to forgo dessert as the time was getting on. I walked Mirinda back to her flat and then made the long journey home to the poodles.

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I forgot to mention our hornbeam. It is in blossom and going insane, spreading its little seeds everywhere. It sort of resembles dandelion seeds except there is an awful lot of it. Every time the wind blows, it releases another cloud. Consequently, our garden (and most rooms in the house) is covered with it. Here is just a small bit of it.

Blossom from the hornbeam

When the conservatory guy came on Saturday, his bald head was covered in it, giving him a sort of blonde afro hairstyle.

Today was closed. Farnham, I mean. So no trip to the shops; no Starbucks. Of course I didn’t get a sleep-in. But other than that, I had a total bludge of a day.

We popped over to Lower Froyle to an NGS garden that was open. We’ve been there before but it’s always nice to revisit. I’ve searched through the blog but cannot find another entry for the garden so I assume it was before I started writing!

Anyway, it claims to be three gardens in one which, I suppose it is but only in the way that our garden is about five gardens in one – the work area, the shrub circle, the front garden, the patio area and the other bit where the Wendy House used to be and where the hot bed is now. It makes it out to be massive but we all know it’s not. The same with the NGS garden.

It is ram packed with flowers. Every available spot, excepting a narrow, mower width strip of lawn and a slab path, is just bursting with perennial lushness. Here’s the main part. The hedge at the back separates the next section.

Walbury: NGS garden in Lower Froyle

That’s not to say it wasn’t lovely. It was. And it was the perfect day for it. Sunny, bright and not too hot. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the garden. Even this chap. OK, he doesn’t look too good in the photo but that’s just unfortunate. He actually sounded fine and was having a right old go at the guy pushing.

Visitors to Walbury which is clearly wheelchair friendly

We didn’t stay long, retrieved Sidney and headed back for home, stopping off at the Anchor Inn for a quick pint. This is a great pub that just nestles in farmland and becomes part of it. So much so that we can never find it if we’re not going to Lower Froyle to see an NGS garden. Most mysterious. But a lovely pub.

The only thing about the Anchor Inn is the fact that it seems to be at the meeting point of thousands of electricity pylons. As you can see from the pub sign, there are lots of wires in the sky at Lower Froyle. Given that most electricity in this country is below the ground, this is quite unusual.

Pub sign for the Anchor Inn, Lower Froyle

We sat outside and soaked up the atmosphere before heading home the long way. We decided to annoy Linda by making her recalculate constantly. Mirinda also wanted to look at the lovely (very) English countryside between Froyle and Farnham. And it looked fantastic today.

It certainly didn’t disappoint. Acres of bright yellow rape, deep green hedges running over hills, small country lanes awash with wildlife – Mirinda nearly ran over a pheasant by pressing the accelerator rather than the brake. And finally, home where two crazy poodles demanded a walk.

We took them up to the castle then abck along the Queen’s Bottom. The afternoon/early evening was delightful. A few others were still enjoying the park as we walked through. It was idyllic. And then, to cap things off perfectly, I spotted this magnificent fungus!

Very big, very odd fungus

There’s nothing to judge the size by but it’s almost the diameter of a dinner plate. Further up the dead tree, there is a group of bracket fungus that looks the same except in the form of a bracket. I’m assuming this is actually bracket fungus but growing like a mushroom…on a dead tree. What a perfect end to a perfect day.

I’m pretty sure that the word ‘simnel’ actually means ‘heavenly’ as that quite accurately describes the taste. There’s only one problem with it. At the end (after the mixing, the beating, the cooking, the cooling, and the marzipaning) the finished product needs to go under the grill to be browned off. All well and good for cheese on toast or the top of a souffle but not a knobbly cake.

The finished simnel cake

See what I mean? Next time I’ll use a blow torch rather than the grill. That way I can make it look a bit more even. Anyway, as I said, it was delicious. Mind you, if someone didn’t like marzipan (if such a thing is possible) then they’d not like it. A seam of marzipan runs through it.

So I baked today. I also roasted a chicken and made a sauce with lemons, red onions, tarragon and creme fraiche. This was also delicious and we ate outside for the first time and the Crazies decided to burn their rubbish halfway through the meal. It would have been ok except the wind was blowing in our direction. Fortunately they didn’t burn off for too long so we stayed outside.

The weather has really been good enough for al fresco eating. This actually means that it has been too hot for me but everyone else is loving it. Even the squirrels are loving it. On the way into town this morning I spotted this little chap just laying down on a branch, chillin’ in the morning sun.

A squirrel watches me as he enjoys the sun

At Waitrose I told Julie what a simnel cake was and how I was going to take her advice and roast the chicken. She was glad but wanted to know what I was going to do differently to what Delia prescribed. Julie thinks I’m a brilliant cook (based on nothing but the ingredients I buy) so, rather than disappoint her by pointing out that I would NEVER try and improve on Delia, I told her I’d probably add some tarragon. This placated her a bit.

When she said I didn’t have any tarragon in my shopping, I thought she had me but then I remembered I have some growing at home. Disaster averted!

There are no shops open tomorrow. This is interesting. Everything was open on Friday, the day that celebrates the death of Christ but the day he rose from the dead, for this the shops are all closed. Interesting. I think it points to the power of the church indicating that we should really care when someone dies but should kick back and chill two days later because they will be walking along a country road just waiting to run into someone. I know Catholics hang around in churches at Easter just waiting. I find it very, very weird.

Still…the conservatory guy returned today with his quote. Martin his name is and he’s a lovely chap. I think we may go with him. With his quote, I mean. The design and build will greatly enhance the back of the house and the extra room will mean we can remain in Farnham. There’s even somewhere for the Christmas tree to go each year.

Mirinda had her hair done today so I made a second trip into town and shopped for tomorrow (did I mention that the shops will be closed?).

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I found out tonight that the word ‘bumf’ meaning bits of junk mail that no-one actually reads except in the toilet, comes from the fact that people used to use these useless bits of paper instead of toilet paper. The word is short for ‘bum fodder’. We heard that on BBC 4 tonight. Hopefully I’ll never forget it.

I’m getting quite keen on embedding video in blog posts. So, today, we have an odd little film about Day-z.

I called her and then started filming. She came to me then turned straight back to Mirinda when she realised I wasn’t serious. The thing is, Mirinda had a bowl of cereal. Day-z is quite committed to bowls of cereal. A little later in the day, following study and gardening, she watched me intently from Mirinda’s knee.

Day-z keeping a keen eye out for the appearance of anything edible

I’m not sure what she was expecting but she didn’t get it.

It was Good Friday today. Everything was open in Farnham (albeit some establishments opened later than usual) so it was just like any other day. This is quite good for an atheist. Easter Sunday, on the other hand, is going to be a right pain because everything will be closed. This means I have to plan food a day ahead. This is not something I enjoy.

And there was a lot of religious hoo ha on the radio. Radio 4 seemed to highlight Jesus every time I turned it on and then, in the afternoon while I was gardening, and before I fell asleep in the sun listening to the football, I switched to Radio 4 Extra and what was on? The bloody Life of Jesus! And so I put the football on (Crystal Palace and…someone else) and then fell asleep it was so interesting. Naturally I’m blaming Radio 4 for not finishing in the garden.

Talking of religious appropriation…today I went looking for a simnel cake. I’d never heard of them but Mirinda had some during the week and loved it. I was despatched to find some. I didn’t and so I’m going to make one tomorrow but that’s not the point. It seems that simnel cake has become yet another symbol of Easter.

Originally made in Medieval times, young girls in service would bake a simnel cake for their mothers and take it to them on Mothering Sunday. Since appropriation, eleven little balls of marzipan have been added to the top. These represent the eleven apostles, Judas being left out because he was a little too interested in money. Actually I’ve never been convinced with Judas committing suicide. It seems very unlikely and highly suspicious.

No-one knows why the simnel cake is called a simnel cake. The best anyone can come up with is that it derives from the Latin word simila, meaning fine, wheaten flour which was used in making it. Why the church decided to steal the idea and make it their own is anyone’s guess but it probably involves treachery and an attempt at boosting attendance with a familiar symbol.

Speaking of Easter traditions…I listened, agape (one of the guys Mirinda works with is a total gaper and I just love the idea) the other day while one of the girls in Starbucks related for us the Czech version of Easter. Apparently (and I’ve verified it elsewhere) the boys in her village would go around with these light whips and try and whip the girls legs in exchange for chocolate (it was eggs originally but, understandably, people prefer chocolate now). It was seen as an indication of how gorgeous you were if a lot of boys whipped you a lot. However, the biggest and bestest was if they grabbed you and threw you in the river. Nice.

Now the rabbits I understand when it comes to Easter. It is, after all, a festival time to celebrate the renewal that arrives with spring. For some reason, rabbits popping out and nibbling away at the new growth is a strong springtime image. And eggs as well. Obviously the result of springtime friskiness by the birds. A lot of countries have eggs as Easter symbols.

But why did they become chocolate? When was it considered a good thing to introduce confection to both the Rite of Spring and the Death of Jesus? I love chocolate as much as any other normal person but really…I don’t see it. Was it a fiendish piece of marketing genius by Cadbury’s back in Victorian times? I could probably find out by Googling “why do we have chocolate eggs at Easter” but I’m not going to. I like to think it’s a big conspiracy by the capitalist overlords, perpetrated on the poor and weak. That’s more fun.

Carmen trying to resist my hugging her

I’m just going to finish with this delightfully affectionate photograph of me hugging Carmen. She is clearly enjoying it a LOT!

I heard this on Radio 4 the other night:

A city kid is in the country for the day. He asks a farmer:

“Hey, mister. Why’s that cow got no horns?”

The farmer looks the kid up and down and smiles:

“There could be three reasons why a cow has no horns. Firstly, it could have been born without horns. Secondly, it could have had crumpled horn and had them cut off. Thirdly, and clearly why in this case, because it’s a horse.”

It did make me laugh. It’s a panel game called Act Your Age, where three teams of comics are pitted against each other. There are two comedians in each team and they are of different generations. So, team one is The Current Crop, team two is The Up-and-Comers and team three is The Old Guard. It is all about pace so there are a lot of one liners. I love it. It has me in stitches for the full half an hour.

Anyway, as I said yesterday, I have another video of Molly singing from Annie. This time (after Mirinda’s request) we have Maybe. Please excuse the occasional rough spots but, according to Adele, she hadn’t warmed up before singing.

Today I cleaned the house while popping into the study every now and then to check the progress of my rearranging plan for the PC. All ended up well and I now have a PC that runs properly again.

Of course we went for our daily walk round the park. Surprisingly there weren’t as many people around today. Each day since the school holidays started, there’s been lots of little groups dotting the hillsides, tempting Day-z to jump on their prostrate bodies. Not today though. We only saw four groups, in fact.

One of the many, MANY things I love about Farnham park is when it has been freshly mown. It always smells perfect. I’m sure there’s a few allergenic types that would disagree, but it’s almost as good as freshly baked bread…if you ask me. And today I managed to get a great snoot full. Yes, it had been freshly cut right before we arrived. And it smelled a little like this:

Farnham Park just after the mowing tractor's been through