For a few moments the sun beamed through some stormy clouds, and while that happened a beautiful bride with an array of white lillies made her way from the old church doors towards a limosine the length of a lorry. And then the heavy grey clouds above knitted together like a frown and the rain began to pour. We waited ten minutes in the bakery for some cheese and onion pasties and the people behind the counter asked me five times if I had been served and the lady who had served us kept making a funny about how me and my littles were waiting for the nanny pasties to bake.
They did wait so well, their noses pressed against the glass behind which all the fineries the bakery had to offer were displayed. Vanilla slices with pink icing, chocolate cupcakes iced with fine up-do’s, large fat danish pastries with generous helpings of custard yolk nestled in their middles, giant scones you just know were shaped by a pair of skilled old hands, eccles cakes, battenburg slices, giant gingerbread men and chocolate chip shortbread biscuits the size of my three year old’s face.
Then once they each had their pasties and my son his vanilla slice that he insisted proudly on buying with a little bit of pocket money he had, we braved the rain and ran as fast as we could to the library, where we read and played and work for an hour and a half, and then back home for the rest of the day. Pottered about gardening, watched and named some birds who visited our birdfeeder today, they cuddled with their father once he got home from work late that evening and my son read a Paddington Bear story to him. I came in a little later and found them all sleeping together with the book across my son’s chest.
Small blessings, folks, ought to be counted. They are numerous and yet still precious.



