A Sunday blown through with rain, buffetty, quite plain. Consideration is given to finding long trousers but for now we muddle through with shorts and boots.
The front door is open and the stove lit, the jam pan scrubbed from yesterday's boiling; that bubbled obsidian and set ruby; four crammed jars wait for labels, another is open, waiting for the halt of the bread maker's ruminations.
A greedy glimpse shows azurite, under the kitchen's electric bulb. Washing in the lovely machine tumbles.
The fabulous smell of bread.
Dog eats up her chicken scraps and upstairs the sneaky rain-damped Cat is sleeping on some folded clothes.