It's that time of year again when..... Andy Murray grumps around the courts, chickens get burnt on the barbeque and I wear floaty frocks!
Love it.

The French Open starts on Sunday, he, Murray meets a Japanese player (Ito) in the first round...should be a doddle for the Scot. But in his group is his mate the ever so resilient, ever so brilliant killing machine, Rafa Nadal. Prepare for War. Tennis Wars are the only Wars I adore! I'm simply gushing over the the thought of Wimbledon, can't wait to watch it with mum eating Sainsburys strawberries and dairy free cream. Weight? Heart? None of the above. Just love the taste.
I'm hoping she'll be fit enough and upright enough to sit in a real chair alongside me watching our favourite televised sport. Love All...

Chickens were made for scorching, burning and glazing. On a bbq. Preferably with homemade sauce made earlier in the day long before the guests arrive, this leaves more time for chattering/drinking/kissing.
Salad would/ should be under wraps in case of a) bugs b) poisoning c) thieves. A cornucopia of breads should be available. Butter for the thin and carefree, spread for the twits/worriers.
Boneless breast is the absolute ideal body piece for al fresco eating, but make sure to flatten the ample booby otherwise it might not cook through resulting in old people dying.

Talking of which I've already caught the summer food bug because instead of making a fish pie for tonight I've plumped for homemade burgers with red onion relish, stupid lettuce washed shredded and dried, potato wedges encrusted with spices, buttered mange tout (what?) and big buns.

Now I must fly.
Oooodles to do and dreams to dream.
I'm such a girl/wacko/