Berry turned on its bestest blue skies on Sunday. Dontcha love a country lane? Somehow so pregnant with possibility.
Again, the peace continued to be marred by scary, shouty instructions. They reminded La of those “howlers” in Harry Potter, them what the mums send to their JCCs at Hogwarts shouting at them about something. Then they explode.
Swear when I buy my own country palazzo, I won’t plant howlers around the place to scare my guests. And I will even let them slice stinky cheese on the “bread” board.
Little lady JCC loved la swing.
On a stroll through Berry proper we discovered this retro-delicious dwelling. Think there are signs dotted throughout its innards shouting, “Don’t machine wash the sparkly kaftans!”? Or maybe, “Do not use the Spalyds in place of forks!” Or even, “Do not dry hump the Don Draper cut-out!”
And there was this early C20th gem…
…with a matching super-dinky mini palazzo letterbox.
The chilly temps called for fortification in the form of srsly amazing doughnuts.
Check out this puppy. None of that Krispy Kreme rubbish here. Just sugar, cinnamon and trans fats. Old skool.
Male JCC kept his eye on the prize.
Discovered an amazing shop called Roots & Wings — srsly super-stylish. Was KICKING laself for leaving my fantastic plastic in Sydney. An incomplete handbag swap before we left meant that if I wanted to buy anything — from a newspaper to a Tibi pant — I was to be in thrall to Signor Seriousimo, aka The ATM. Drats and blastedness. He was loving it, the sadistic sod. Grr.
Needless to say, this meant I was unable to purchase the amazing navy wool coat with black leather lapels in the front window, as that would have entailed Seriousimo finding out how much Nice Clothes cost. And we cannot go there, people. Best that, on that front, he stays in the dark. Like a fungus.
It also meant I couldn’t surreptitiously snaffle this uber chi-chi raffia motorbike. Though it would have been tricky to wedge it into the boot without him noticing.
So in what kind of shop, you might ask, would Seriousimo be happy to cleave himself from his cash?
Yesterday I showed you his happy breakfast place — a pain au raisin, a bowl of latte and a water. Today I present to you: this explosion of Switzernalia, where I had to be the voice of financial reason (for once) and convince him to think carefully before he spent $3,890 on a cuckoo clock.
You’ve likely worked out that the cost wasn’t the only thing that gave me pause. I mean, egads. It’s like an explosion of hideousness. Took me back to the moment I discovered an Ace of Base CD in his collection when we’d just begun courting. And still I married him. Had I known then what I know now about the cuckoo clock fetish, though, it’s safe to say the JCCs would have a different hair colour and a different surname. And no cuckoo clocks coming at them at the reading at the parental wills.
We all had to calm down after so much excitement. For the female JCC that meant some time with her favourite over-fed, over-ripe, overpaid BBC presenters.
And for us it meant this. The cuckoo clock near-miss called for celebratory bubbles.
And this. YES. Even after the doughnuts. Doesn’t count on holiday, does it?
Berry crumble. All that was missing was a shouty little sign saying, “Do NOT leave a crumb.”