Yesterday, the clouds stopped conferring and accidentally let a ray of sun through. While they were panicking around, trying to close the gaps, Bru and I raced to a pick-your-own farm and ate our own bodyweight in raspberries.
Although not quite as conspicuous as an Eastern European woman stalking around Kew Gardens in stilletos, I wasn’t dressed for the activity, and looked like a toxic, urban mother trying to show her child that fruit doesn’t grow in Waitrose refrigerators. Which I’m not, because he knows full well it rots in plastic Morrison punnets.
Incidentally, if there is a more spiritual way to spend 20 minutes, I have yet to find it.
At the end of our romp there was somehow a surfeit. Who, I mused, could be the deserving recipient?
Of course, the ideal candidates took less than 30 seconds to suggest themselves, after which I repaired to my parents’, where I decanted the booty into a vitamin pot, cleverly wrapped in dyed-green pipe cleaners.
I then fashioned beetles from the peeled labels of Bonne Maman apricot jars and attached them at right angles, with the wire twists from a cornflakes packet.
Finally, I cut around a picture of Chelsy Davy, from a Mail on Sunday magazine and stuck an unsuccessful lottery ticket on the back of it.
This provided a suitable background for the following missive, endorsed by the counterfeit signature of my mother:
Pretty things in paper
Put a big smile on my face
If you could just send up a five pound note instead
That would be ace.