Mr L is about to walk out of the door and head for Manc. I am sitting here, awaiting that moment of liberation and light-heartedness that always comes when I know that I have a week to myself. My head is full of possibilities. Possible bakings and makings, and spinnings and knittings.
Today is not the kind of day that inspires notions of bread-making, so I have retrieved some home-made Pittas from the freezer and I’ll be having hummus for lunch. Now, that I am truly looking forward to.
I’m hoping to test my skills on baguettes this week, at the very least. I’d like to have a crack at croissants too, if I can.
The trick is to get as much as possible done while the euphoria is in place; as soon as I begin to miss my man and to feel lonely, I’ll be slumped in front of the iPlayer with nothing more constructive than a bar of chocolate to chew on.
Anyway, it will be Friday afternoon before I know it, so I had best be as industrious as I possibly can be.
What? The Tour de Fleece? Let’s not go there. Not today.