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My friends.

From you I have been absent in the spring. I apologise. I have thought of you lots, I promise. Yet my brain has been so scrambled all I have been able to do is stare blankly at endless reruns of Phil Spencer’s Secret Agent and buy nappies on Amazon.

There has been wee, and poo, and poo, and wee. Tears, tantrums (not just the Petite Pommes), laughter and an awful lot of time spent staring at the wonderfulness of these two new beings. The rest of my time is spent washing, rocking, eating cake or encouraging The Boo not to stand on a baby.

Yesterday was a full packet of shortbread biscuits kind of a day. Baked goods are featuring large in my life at present. These things happen.

I’d love to say that I’m preparing a special meal for Father’s Day tomorrow, both in celebration of how utterly marvellous Le Pomme is with the Petite Pommes, as well as how fantastic my own father is. But I’d be lying through my teeth.

If I had the time, the inclination and the peace to cook, this is what would be on the menu:

To start, Bresaola with Rocket, Parmesan and Lemon. Followed by Poached Salmon with Asparagus and New Potatoes. And Eton Mess.

But I haven’t, and I don’t, because if I did I’d be using it to sleep. So we will leave Phil Spencer behind and venture out for lunch, and Le Pomme and my father can cuddle a baby apiece – surely the best Fathers Day gift of all?

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