Sunday was a day of rest. This, of course, depends on one's definitions. But it was full of dull yet comfortable domestic chores. Washing up, bathing, supermarket shopping, making wine and harvesting soft fruit from the garden all figured and it was glorious not having to rush anywhere, play anything or be sociable. Which makes me sound like a grumpy old man - though the cap fits.
We did not finish the bottle until Monday, but Sunday's portion was drunk to home-made pitta bread and our first tiny potato crop from the garden. Purple-skinned, sweet and delicious.