Rolling in the deep

Despite trying, my middle aged gene seems beyond repression and so this week I shall be glued to Alan at Chelsea. The previews on the BBC so far have been very intriguing, and although perhaps a bit too early in the day to pass judgement, and I understand that the man has a reputation to uphold, I already feel Diarmuid’s pink pod is a little unnecessary.

This weekend was a rather jolly one spent with friends enjoying sunshine and beer in the garden. The Toy Boy and I even found a property that caught our eye and we spent a good half an hour or so inspecting it’s fine appointments. Unfortunately we felt we had to leave after our host was asked “Who are your grown up friends playing in Jodie’s Wendy House”? I shall be nipping back for the gingham drapes.

On Sunday we decided to extend our culinary repertoire to include roasted rabbit, which was a bit more expensive than our normal choice of classic poultry but we thought worth a try. Cooked to perfection, browned and seasoned beautifully it was served with Moroccan style couscous, roasted vegetables and a hunk of wholegrain loaf, and (as pictured) looked thoroughly delightful…

but tasted like chicken.

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