My Sundays are all the same

It’s Sunday morning again and Father is out chasing little white balls around the greens. And I am sitting here with the Sunday papers, checking my emails, and sipping tea, I’ve just finished going over today’s dinner menu with Cook, roast lamb as usual, but Grayson must have potatoes and Hillary won’t eat parsnips,the little ones don’t like peas or carrots and Aimee won’t touch meat, there are those who like mustard and those who insist on mint sauce.Everybody wants something different, Cook is a life saver, I don’tknow what I would do with out her, serve take away most likely.
I putter around in the garden if the weather is tolerable or I fidget around in the hothouse if the weather is rotten, and I wait for my sprogs to come home for Sunday dinner.
I get as huge senseof satisfaction as I look around the dining room table, Hillary and Father,talking “shop” Aimee and Grayson discussing art, or telling jokes, my grandchildren listening to everything with great interest. My Sundays maybe mundane and repetitive, but I love them, I love everything about them.

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