I have nothing special of my own to say about saveloys, but this is a lovely post/intro/poem on the subject of bright red working class meat. That you eat, not like lipstick.

The beautiful weather broke today. It broke all over the third load of washing. I was diligent enough to rescue loads one and two but as for the third, it can stay out there for a few more rinsings.

Inside, we have three sunflower seedlings and three basil seedlings newly arrived on the windowsill. One variety of sunflower has a blue seed coating (fungicide I suspect) and it looks quite surreal to have a bright blue 'lid' on an emergent stalk.

It is Spring and I am cleaning all sorts of things. Fionn and Brighid and I cleaned the car the other day. Normal activity for some, like unearthing a midden for us. At work, I am cleaning my desk, in readiness for the resumption of regular hours on Monday. Also, perhaps, in readiness for changes on the paid labour front. I have written to my boss advising him that I am cutting my hours of availability for 2011. Brighid is four in January and I want to spend her last year before the machine with her. We can garden together. Better than hairdressing, wouldn't you say? (Brighid cut her own hair the other day and the description by one friend of 'reverse mohawk' is rather apt).

This morning I cooked up a big pot of chickpeas and turned them into hummous to freeze like my clever thrifty friend Megan only I'm not sure how incredibly clever I was economically. I ran out of time to make sandwiches for the children who were about to go to our lovely Sharon while FH and I went to work, so I threw money at the Do-Duck-In, which obliged with gingerbread men and lolly cake.

Clearly, a mother who makes too much hummous and forgets to make sandwiches is not an entirely bad thing if you are three. Or seven.


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