On Sunday

So much for Sunday being a day of rest. As the sun rose, so did we. We headed west through our old haunt, Reading, and on to the cute villages of south Oxfordshire. While I waited for David to complete the Reading Spring Race around a little piece of English postcard-perfection called Woodcote, I treated myself to a light jog through the bluebelled woods. I didn't run too far because I was on Feed Zone duty, and I was the only woman in Woodcote handing her sweaty spouse a water bottle dressed in a pink silk kimono jacket and white linen culottes this morning, a fact that only I seemed to find completely normal. Then we went for lunch at a very charming place called the Woody Nook at Woodcote, where I can highly recommend the Cornish sea bass, filleted with flair at our table by the French waiter. My idea of a perfect Sunday lunch; one that ends with cappucino and the Sunday Times. After which, we went home and I walked the arduous two blocks to our local pub to see a play with my lovely friend Amber. Theatre 503 performs in a little theatre above the pub, and delivers new writing. This was a first play from actor Orlando Wells. We were interested in his dark view of a world run by a massive corporation, but he had stuffed his play with Messiahs, Mary Magdalens, idiot-savants, and People Who Shouted A Lot, which lost me a little. And now I'm home, frantically typing before dashing off to bed for the requisite eight hours. Its bliss to get out of London for the day, but its even better coming home to it to begin another week.