Brunching and Blue Skies

The first week M is back he is both ill and jet-lagged. He sleeps and sleeps, blinds drawn, waking occasionally to murmur incoherently. It is like having a shiny new toy that I am not allowed to play with. By Friday evening he is feeling well enough to get up, eat a bowl of spaghetti, watch a DVD.

Saturday he is back to his usual self, and we rise early, jet-lag still present, head to the Southbank in the sunshine. Breakfast at Canteen, sunlight streaming in through the large glass windows, orange juice freshly squeezed, egg yolks golden. We wander by the river, aimlessly, stumble upon a practice session for a free running competition at the National Theatre. Lunch is pea soup, oatcakes, cheese from the Cheese and Wine festival at the Southbank earlier. M goes to watch the rugby, I potter about in the sunshine, happy with the light, the gentle warmth.

Later we meet, when it is dark, wind through the streets of Soho to Yalla Yalla, end up at the larger, newer branch near Oxford Circus, eat smoky Baba Ghanoush with chewy pitta bread, salty pickles from tiny bowls, crunchy Fattoush, feta filled Samboussek. It was delicious, I would recommend.

Sunday morning, jet-lag again, we journey across to Columbia Road flower market, take photographs, buy flowers, anemones, ranunculus, brown paper wrapped. Eat brunch at The Book Club, fat buttermilk pancakes, fruit, syrup. Come home and bake for a work bake sale, brownies, cupcakes, cookies, then invite Anna over for tea because the flowers bought earlier seem too beautiful to languish in the living room alone, they need us to sit around them, with a plate of warm cookies and mugs of tea, playing catch up as their petals open.

A slow, quiet weekend all things considered, but I am grateful that M is back, glad the sun is shining. Glad that we are round again to Friday too - hope you all have a lovely weekend chickpeas!