It's amazing what one night in my own sweet, sweet bed can do to a man. I'm still knackered - and bear in mind compared to Greg's driving, and ana and Spandy's crowd control the *only* thing I did on the drive to and from Brittany was talk to the French peage dollies (Bonjour. Cn'est pas logical pour moi, mais c'est tres practical) - but I feel ready to tackle our bulging holiday bags.
Lucky Mike and Kay are in attendance to entertain le Milos, whilst we do a bazillion loads of washing, put everything away and yes Lucy Ferguson, carry out a selection of self-inflicted bike repairs.
Cooking is the last thing on my mind so we repair to The Treehouse for an early-ish lunch, and where Milo's usual tour of the bamboo jungle, gentleman's loo and decorative toy wall is enlivened by an accidental visit to the kitchen. It's pretty cool though, the chef is showing a sous how to make chocolate sauce, and because we're out of lickage reach we stay for a bit.
Back in the sun (curse you miasma of molten plasma, where were you in France?), we have the following:
Burger and chips - Me
Salmon fish cakes - Milo (with chips and broccoli) and Kayosaurus
Disappointing asparagus risotto - The Anas
Roast chicken - Mikeploducus
There's so much we're still stuffed in the evening, with only room for cereal for dinner. Or is that supper? I forget...