That was Husband's comment on our roast chicken dinner tonight. 'The parsnips aren't as good as usual. And the green beans are ... green beans.'
Well, I enjoyed it.
And now I'm flopping in my jim-jams. I would take a photo of them except our camera battery is dead and we discovered we must have left the charger in Ibiza. I've ordered a new one but, while waiting for it to be delivered, I feel as if I'm missing a part of me. So many times I've thought: I must take a photo of that. And most recently, obviously, of my jim-jams. I've only just discovered the delight of relaxing in soft loose flannelette trews. Daughter, Elder Son and Daughter-in-law are old hands at it and now I know why.
Although I do, necessarily, have to put up with Husband asking if I'm going to play golf. (But they don't look at all like those hideous trousers that some golfers wear as you'll see when I finally manage to take a photo.)
Husband says, 'It's a good job you love me.'
I am non-committal.