The husband hasn't been at his happiest this weekend. I put this down to a couple of things. Firstly, I dragged him off to see King Arthur at the cinema on Saturday night. Now I have been harping on about this film for at least three months, and we eventually found a cinema which was close enough not to involve a packed lunch and a wee-break, and which was still brave enough to show it. The trouble was that the only showing we could book was 9.25 (35 minutes before my obligatory bedtime), so we were yawning before the trailers had started. Not to worry, the film was so loud that if we had wanted to sleep, we would have needed earplugs and a deerstalker hat, which might just have muffled the noise to a dull roar. But the film was great, just very late...
Before we schlepped up to the cinema, Miss R had invited us round for an early doors barbecue. And herein lies the other contribution to the husband's misery. Miss R likes to man her own barbecue, and the husband was champing at the bit to get his pinny and tongs out. It's a 'man thing', the whole naked flame and raw meat phenomenon. I had to place a gentle restraining hand on his arm a couple of times, and he did eventually manage to stay seated throughout. I was relieved as the last thing I wanted to witness was Miss R and the husband haggling over a Moroccan Spiced chicken quarter as the sausages caught light.
So yesterday, I thought I needed to do something to put a smile on that cheeky little face I love so much. The husband wanted to strim back the nettles encroaching on our patch of dirt (this would be the one which at the moment yields nothing) and I had runner bean plants to dig in, replacing the ones which the pigeons/rats/rabbits/slugs had eaten. He went on ahead of me, and it was as I was peering in the fridge that I had an epiphany. Gathering up a pack of frozen croissants, bacon, coffee and a disposable barbecue, I headed over to the allotment.
The husband, who is very big on safety was dressed as though the Walking Dead were about to make an appearance, rather than yours truly with a picnic hamper, and once he realised I was there (five minutes before I could make myself heard over the bloody strimmer) his little eyes lit up, especially when his eyes spied the bacon.
So we fired up the barbecue, ate bacon croissants and drank coffee in the sunshine gazing at the thistles which seem to be the only sustainable life in my allotment.