Seven hundred drinks

I woke up feeling even worse this morning. Following m’boy’s late night vomit comet - the smell of which by the way was easily the worst thing ever to have tanged my nostrils - I slept fitfully, waking with every noise in case he was throwing up again. Fortunately for him he seemed to have slept it off.

With the outside wall needing a second coat, my parents kindly took the wee ones off for a couple of hours to visit the Milnthorpe boot sale and to score a tea and cake at the same nursery we visited last week. 

I was grateful for the break in play, as I was able to crack on and thankfully the second coat over pebbledash was much easier.

They returned back to mine with a fist full of bargains and a tray full of lovely flowers, which is just what was need to help brighten up the yarden. I’d already been pottering about to tidy it and found that in the course of my pottering, I had a few empty pots into which went the new posies. It is but a small corner of the world, but it is mine/ours/noactuallymine and even the children commented about how nice it is.

To break up the grey, I’d also put the damaged coloured window from the loft conversion work as a backdrop and when the light is just right, the sun illuminates the colours. 

With m’boy flagging, we got our quiet afternoon with some screen time to escape the heat and I was able to watch a fair amount of the tennis final.

Kyrgios is a fascinating character isn’t he? No internal monologue to speak of just raw, unfiltered stream of consciousness type stuff. When berating the umpire for not ejecting a lady who he alleged was drunk, he was asked which lady he was referring to and said that “it was the one who looks like she’s had seven hundred drinks, bro!”

We finished up the day with a tasty tikka masala and a non-event of a pudding, which went badly wrong and stunk the house up. 

It’s been a rather funky weekend in that regard.