Thursday July 8th

Day 79

My husband is picking blackcurrants at the allotment. I want to be there too, foraging in the prickly bushes for warm fat berries. I can taste their strong sharp sweetness, like sherbert, and remember a recipe I pulled out of a magazine last summer. A parfait - a vanillary, egg yolk and cream mixture, semi frozen and then swirled through with trickles of deep purple blackcurrant puree. Maybe this time I’ll serve it with shortbread biscuits on the side. If I can find it again.

For now I can only dream about recipes as, like the pussy cat, I need to stretch out on the sofa and let my irritated back muscles ripple into softness.