Nice weather for frogs

Last night, just as I collapsed, inexplicably exhausted, into bed, the heavens opened and rain crashed down, closely followed by lightning (though oddly no thunder - unless it was drowned out by the noise of the rain). Somehow I slept regardless, even through Mr B opening the windows to close the shutters.

A sluggish start this morning, though I had to be up early to make up for yesterday's lamb shoulder lapse... It was poked with anchovies, garlic and rosemary, liberally massaged with oil and in the oven nestling on a bed of boulangere potatoes before 9am.

That, of course, left the rest of the day to feel famished smelling all those lovely meaty garlicky smells. Helpfully, Mr B needed an assistant to (in this order) find plastering tools, set up ladders, sweep up rubble, find last year's accounts, dry plastering tools and edit this year's draft accounts. It's all go.

At some point, just after it rained, I found this litlle fella sitting on my heuchera on the front step. It's a nearly enclosed courtyard, probably not the best place for a frog, but he looked happy enough, cuddling a small snail. There were campaign photos to be done next for TallGirl who is standing in the election to be class délégué. She insisted on putting on a suit and tie - which somehow made her look like a Tory politician (blue tie), though I don't think she'd like hearing that.

Dinner was twice delayed due to plastering taking longer than anticipated, so the yorkshires (not traditional with lamb I'm sure, but very popular round here) were less crisp than they might have been and the broccoli was a little flacid around the edges too. Regardless, it was pronounced rather tasty - though next time we'll ditch the boulangere potatoes (they soak up what should be gravy) and have gravy and dauphinoise potatoes instead! Peach sorbet and caremelised oranges provided a lighter dessert.

CarbBoy had a spiky conker thrown in his eye during some post-dinner play outside with his pals, so retired hurt with an ice block to the sofa, where we joined him for Blackadder and white chocolate truffles. And then in a whirlwind of packing and hugs, Mr B was gone. Just like that. I do envy his ability to go from watching telly in PJs to leaving the door in work clothes (having just packed his bag for a week) in five minutes flat; but it makes the departure harder somehow.

And now four baskets of ironing refuse to be ignored any longer. The weekend is over.