My breakfast this morning was a work of art and a culinary masterpiece. The nondescript cereal was simply a base on to which I piled freshly-picked blueberries, strawberries, blackberries and my home-grown stewed rhubarb. We don't know how lucky we are, living in this paradise.
We're having a day at home today which is becoming very much the norm. Our Probus Clubs close down over the Christmas/New Year period, my Writing and Poetry groups are on holiday and only Marilyn's Reading Group is meeting regularly, but that's not until next week. It should be a good time to catch up on some of the good TV programs we have accumulated but we seem to be preferring to read. Marilyn's engrossed in a series of detective stories written by Pauline Rowson and I'm enjoying a series about a monk in 12th century England. It sounds very esoteric, I know, but they're just mystery stories with a different slant.
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