So Easter has arrived.
And so has the family.
Dear Sylvie has managed to make it home for my special
homemade hot cross buns. She's even
brought her cougar with her. How
surprised we were to learn that the industrial bag of kitty litter I bought
would not be needed, as Cougar Anne is actually a human person! Henry
harrumphed a great deal. What with The
Other One pregnant with no husband, and now Sylvie being queer with a
50-year-old escaped convict, he's almost glad that Alistair just plays rugby
and shags his way around the Northeast with no prospects to speak of, to say
nothing of the academic glitter we had once hoped for on his behalf.
In any case, Sylvie says we have the UK Border Agency
finally collapsing under its own incompetence to thank for her visit. If they were actually any good, they would
have realised that her passport had been flagged by the police forces of 67
countries and that Anne's was completely fake.
But whatever facilitated her homecoming, we're glad to have her
here. The less said about the laundry
the better, however; I think Smeaton is still sulking.
We're a full house here at Airnefitchie, and though The
Other One only communicated through Skype, seeing her blossoming face through
the webcam really made it feel like she was here.
This bank holiday weekend will, therefore, be an
unexpectedly busy one. I will have to
make an extra batch of hot cross buns tomorrow morning, as the ones I made
today were demolished as soon as they came out of the oven. Henry and I didn't even get a look in. I'll have to drive out to the abattoir to
make sure the lamb we picked for Sunday lunch will be big enough. And the digging up of significant numbers of
additional potatoes will be de rigeur.
So Happy Easter and/or Spring Festival, everyone.
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