There's something kind of nice about sitting around an open fire in a tin shed on a windless evening watching the last burst of sun hit the hills at the back paddock before it quietly slips away. We ended our Sunday with a glass of something and some good company to rest tired legs from bouncing around on a tractor (not me) and wrenching nettles out of garden beds (me). Weekends are a time to literally eat into some of the oversupply we have of eggs at the moment. Now, at about 5 a day of the ones that we can easily find...the others are for Bennie (pictured sleeping on the mat) to carefully place on the back doorstep unbroken. Most of the time he's successful, but you can see the look of 'bugger' on his face when not, and of course he just has to eat the contents then. Weekends usually produce a sponge cake (at least 5 eggs in that, tick), and a roast to slowly go round above the flames in the not so old but made look old tin shed. Sunday nights are best relaxed but weary. Unfortunately the evening bliss didn't last long after picking up dog pooh for a second time in the dining room that weekend (you might have heard me scolding the dog from where you are), or cleaning up another pile of cat vomit as Max's delicate constitution repels his offending dinner on no less than three bathroom mats as one is cleaned and replaced by another. I was glad when the clock said bed time. I settled into a good book about someone on a bigger farm with much bigger problems to worry about.
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