Like a panda Mr H has his head amongst the bamboo as leaf covered stems swish through the air hitting the ground at my feet. Sitting on our blue bench I strip leaves from the canes; soon to be the climbing frame for my peas as they sprout juicy green pods at the allotment.
The sun sizzles on my left foot and shoulder so I slip inside for respite as clotted cream cries from the fridge:
I need scones...
Like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes I pull my Nans Bero book off the shelf. A food processor short cut means ten minutes later the smell of baking wafts into the garden and Mr H pops his head around the back door with a grin.
My scones from this book are always so light they float above the plate.
But disappointment oozes from my pores as I lift the trays out of the oven . My scones should have risen as tall as Mount Everest, instead they are as flat as the Norfolk Broads.
I blame my scone failure on poor old BT; but it could be the out of date flour...
An extra dollop of clotted cream, a thick sandwich of home made blackcurrant jam and blissfully unaware Mr H sinks his teeth in.
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