Jammy Mutiny

Several weeks of staying with relatives and assorted farm animals is at an end.  It was a lovely peaceful place but I can live without the smells, both bovine and septic. Curse my keen nostrils.

We have returned through the heat to our little home. It was quite a drive.  We spent two days on the road where it was over 40 degrees Celsius both days and peaked at around 44 (111 degrees Fahrenheit, for you Northern folks).  We resorted to zoo tricks of preoccupying and cooling the girls with frozen juice boxes.

Shall I tell you what happens when you switch on the world's smallest air conditioner in an uninsulated tin cabin when it is over 40?  Not much.  And this is after the husband stood on the sofa to clean the incredibly dirty air filters in the unit.  Luckily the sofa was pre-slumped.

Upon return the husband has mutinied.  I bought a jar of lovely (read crap) blackberry jam while we were away to remind him and the jam girl of the advantages of helping your lovely wife and mother with fruit picking.  They dutifully swallowed it while away but back at home, near the comforting glow of a jam cupboard full of new cherry, raspberry and mulberry jam, the husband refused to finish the commercial jam.

I did suggest he had to finish it but he got a mulish expression and said he would swap to honey until I reopened jam heaven.  So he ditched it and cleaned the jar just in case I wanted to fill it with something, say, edible.  Like jam, maybe.

Yeah, right. You wouldn't last a week on honey, you jam-mad thing.

Now I know how Lieutenant Bligh felt.