Thank you Mk, the meeting accepts your comment about your unavailability and duly records in the minutes an appropriate response which will be circulated by the secretary but goes something like : " ".
Now back to the unyielding matter of labels.
In the air I can smell toasted marshmallows and this gets me to thinking I should take the gels on a venture into somewhere wild where we can have the staff pitch some tents and maybe a marquee, it needs to be in a dingly dell with sunlight able to dapple our legs through the tree canopy, and there should be a stream quite close that makes the sound of ripples and tiny splashlets.
I wouldn't awfully mind there to be the odd bumble bee or two because hearing them would mean that there were pretty flowers sending to us their delightful scents on a warm breeze that would sometimes drift across our dell. Not strong enough to chase away all the smoke from Cooks open fire, but just strong enough to remind a carelessly placed knee that the fire is aglow. It would need to be quite strong enough however, to carry the taste of toasted marshmallow to me and a few chums because we are in the trees and reckless with abandon having left our ginger beer grog in the shade of the Oak which has lowering branches dropping flies to the trout in the stream, whose snouts barely dimple the little pool they congregate in.
That mewing you can hear, well that's a Buzzard some distance away, soaring in wide circles high above us with an expert eye searching for a kill, while the rustle and scrape much closer is only Bunty taking one of her famous tumbles and glaring up at us from below, arms all scraped and scuffed while we tinkle out laughter and let it gently shower her ails and all the while the bees buzz and the mallows toast and smoke drifts sinuous into our branches and Lamberts pipe sends aromatica redolent with christmas mornings amongst us, green slightly damp leaves stroking the fine hairs on my forearm and me, wishing for a dip and maybe to tickle some old grumpy trout from under the bank just to feel his perfect skin.
Too demanding now to bear any longer, we slither lithe boles and tramp soft grass between our toes in the headlong gangly race to Cooks creations, fighting without demure to be the first to smear unrelenting dripping piping hot mallow across our lips, and again poor Bunty who burns her tongue.
I'm sorry, whatty?
Lizzie xx