It has been a very floral Sunday. I picked honeysuckle, just because -

And limeblossom for tea as it obligingly hangs low from the trees all down the lanes -

And marigolds to put in a cheesecake -

And roses, pansies and borage, to be crystallised in sugar. They'd have gone on top of the cheesecake except every crumb disappeared before they were dry.

If this sounds too bloggy and idyllic, I now have very achey shoulders from fiddling with tiny flowers and I wish somebody else would cook my dinner.

I suppose a readymeal would be letting the side down.

I've been enjoying the recent Cazalet repeats on RadioFour which prompted me to pick up EJH's memoir. However, I'm flagging with this, too many lists of irrelevant walk-on characters met at parties and I far preferred Artemis Cooper's very readable biography. I haven't got as far as the Kingsley years so maybe it will pick up.

I'm not sure when the big Friday night out turned into the early show at the cinema, followed by a whizz around Waitrose on the way home. Last night I dithered over going into town to hear a talk by Tracy Chevalier and realised I couldn't be bothered ... oh dear! 40 minutes to get there, 40 minutes talk, 40 minutes to get back. Sorry, Tracy - it was Cousin Rachel in the suburbs, but I did feel a bit guilty!
Sadly, the film fell a bit flat. Rachel Weisz is very good as the widowed Rachel but somehow there's no tension - remember how gripping the book was? - and I'd agree with the reviewer who called it one rung above an interesting failure. 6/10 from me. I'd have probably enjoyed it more if I'd gone to the Curzon over the road but I had free tickets for the Odeon. Why are Odeons always so grotty?

It was rude, exuberant, raucous, joyful, a little bit sad, brimming with youthful joie de vivre. I found myself sitting at one of the tables on the stage - stacked with bottles of Irn-Bru  - well, I hadn't expected that when I booked a last-minute ticket and didn't realise until I collected it from the box office ... but it just added to the fun, and now I can claim that I've appeared on the West End stage, tapping my feet to music that I'd have been up and dancing to on a Saturday night - errrr, nearly 40 years ago. (It took me a while to place this more recent tune.) I wasn't quite as naughty a convent schoolgirl as the choirgirls of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour on their day out to Edinburgh - I'd never heard anyone use language like that! - but it did make me think fondly of a school trip to Stratford-upon-Avon c1971, smoking Consulates with the bad girls at the back of the bus and not letting on that I really didn't like them once the Polo-mint taste wore off.

I hurried straight home at the end of the show, completely unaware of the terrible events that were unfolding only a mile or so away across the river. So sad to think of those who didn't make it home safely.

We ate our picnic, went round the house, sniffed the wild roses, wondered if we could be bothered making homemade elderflower cordial, went for a walk, spotted lots of wild orchids ...

When we got back to the car, those who refused to be parted from their i-Pads politely inquired if we had a nice time. Yes, thank you. We did.