Good Friday

Friday 22nd April

I walk through the deserted back streets of Exeter into town. I’m on a hazelnut hunt. Another item that fell off my shopping list yesterday. It starts to rain, spotting the blue suede of my new Fitflops. The health food shops are closed. I finally find two packets in the always-open Indian shop.

Back home I bring in the towels from the spinner - they are soaking wet. I put on the heating even though it’s not cold. I hate damp washing draped around the house.

In his office my husband is loose-endish and restless - he wants to go out to lunch. I have too much to do so I put sweet potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes and parsnips in the oven to roast and make a mushroom and spinach omlettte instead. The sun comes out and we eat in the garden. I turn the heating off and re-hang the towels.

I stay in the kitchen all afternoon cooking for Easter - poaching rhubarb, whisking up a hazelnut meringue - I worry it’s not cooked as I doubled the recipe - baking a Breton butter cake and searching for recipes to use eight egg yolks. Creme brulee is the obvious answer although it doesn’t really fit with the other desserts.

My husband rings from the allotment and says do I want to go for a walk. I say yes but by the time he comes home it’s already nearly seven so we have glass of wine in a long hot bath instead. I make an avocado salad and he cooks the pasta. We eat it watching Juilette Binoche and Johnny Depp in Chocolat, the pussy cat curled beside me on the sofa, his spine all knobbly under my hand when I stroke him.

Now it’s nearly midnight and I can hear my husband is asleep. Our neighbour is still playing his guitar - a haunting sound like sobbing in the dark.