Whoops. I knew this blogging lark would bite me on the bum. I think it’s been about two months since I’ve written a single word, maybe more. In my defence, I’ve moved house in that time, and the evenings have mostly seen me glaring moodily at boxes and wondering where the puncture repair kit or the wine glasses are or what has happened to my larger jeans.
Self catering is about accepting nine Hob Nobs as your main meal while the BUBs conk out for hours or making emergency scrambled eggs while dripping wet in your bikini fresh from the pool.
Everything I bake seems to look like boobs at the moment and I blame Fay Ripley.