There is a now sanctuary from the Woolworth’s-who done it, from the proffering of oligarch-grade-bauble-age. Kitchen, under stairs, hides a stellar of Scandinavian /origami stars loosely arranged to divert a prison breakout of lameta, choked and burnt out stick vacuums, respectively renamed ‘the cupboard under that scares’.
A crisp winters day, a little midwinter magic. A winters tale… nope a dreary business trip to ‘the great metrollops’ (London) My meetings with grumpy Judges, found me then collecting the tea boy from a ‘business lunch’, (think, whisperings in leather chaired opulence, in a lavishly proportioned building) whence, to his utter dismay, a colleague ordered a salted-caramel-ice cream sundae of, and I quote, “of freakish proportion”.
Cooo..This gorgeous sounding /hip fodder echoed around my brain cell for 3 hours as I drove home (to the backing track of Claret zzz’s).
Ummm, theres something mercilessly unctuous about salted caramel. Further more there’s something soothingly swish about…