Guilty pleasures

Poor Hugh is down with a flu bug. When he catches something, which is rare, it knocks him for six, and he’s unable to do a thing.

Dosed up with paracetamol and lemon drinks, he’s stayed in bed for the day trying to fight it.

Whilst he’s out for the count, life has to go on. It was still a 5.30am start for me, and my normal cinnamon bun and cake baking for the Stables still had to go ahead. Salad leaves were picked and bagged, deliveries were made.

By the time I got back home, replenished his meds and cleared up the remains of the latest furry unfortunate that Freya had left on the bottom step of the stairs, I was done for the day.

But I still had the kitchen to clear down after the baking session, and so when I eventually sat down for breakfast at 11.30am I felt I needed something more than a slice of toast.

I found a dish of cold new potatoes in the fridge, the remains of a meal a few days ago. Into the pan they went with butter, the last two slices of bacon chopped up, some cherry tomatoes, salt and paprika. Eaten from the pan with a piece of focaccia to mop up the buttery, crispy leavings, it was just what I needed.

That was enough to fill me up, but I fancied something sweet. I opened a tin of sliced peaches and ate that too. How decadent!

Now I sit, replete, feeling as if I’ve indulged in some sort of illicit guilty pleasure. It’s not at all what I would have eaten if Hugh was having breakfast with me.

Sometimes it’s good to rebel and eat exactly what you feel like..

I shall sit in the sun this afternoon and watch the swallows wheel around the house in the breeze. And count my blessings.

Before it’s time to check on the invalid again.