My boss took his children to the Cadbury museum/factory and brought us back a kilo of chocolate, which he has (oddly) given to me for safe keeping, so the thieves from Sales and Marketing don't eat it. A kilo of chocolate is quite heavy. Sadly, it's Dairy Milk - not my favourite, so it probably was quite sensible to give it to me to look after. I really ought to have given him instructions as to what to get (Dark chocolate, DARK), although considering that my jeans are still taunting me with their tightness, perhaps it's just as well.
A quietish weekend - goodbye drinks and dinner for young Cazz, during which I embarassed myself after six pints by trying to talk about adjectives (I don't know why, blame the pints) and then used a verb as an example. Yes. Well done, Penelope. Worst editor ever. Kruse and I then progressed to arguing about grammar and I came to the conclusion that I am awful at explaining things. And perhaps I ought to change professions.
A slight baking semi-disaster when James came for afternoon tea on Saturday. Was lying in bed thinking about going back to sleep to get rid of the persistent headache left over from the night before, next to a lightly snoring, occasionally sleeptalking Kruse who had come in at 9am, again, when Skye texted from her room (the laziness of our house is one of the best things about it) to say I should get up and bake because James was coming to play. To the kitchen - where I made scones and possibly, in my hungover state, put too much baking powder in. The scones rose to a size beyond belief and looked downright stupid. So I cut them all in half to show them I was boss and baked them a little further so they weren't still doughy and explained to all that they'd look better if buried under a layer or two of butter and jam. And, as usual, I was right. And after a few shandies, I didn't care about them, either. And my headache cleared up - shandies are medicinal, you know.
And then some other stuff happened and then we went to bed. The end.