Counting little blessings

My husband brought me breakfast in bed this morning, unprompted and without having read my blog post from last night. I’d toddled up to bed about 9:30 finished reading The Picts and The Martyrs (not a very good synopsis but it will do, this is about the whole series, and not much better) and slept like a log, to be woken by him proudly bearing a tray of hot toast, vegemite, jam and marmalade, 2 cups of hot water and a selection of tea-bags. He laid on the end of the bed while I got outside the toast and we talked about how we’d both had ‘a-ha!’ moments yesterday about Peanut.

After the ultrasound we had in the morning, I spoke to a friend back in the UK, we went into the city where we brought a Nikon D3100 and all-singing-all-dancing lens, a baby album for photos (Hubs idea) and then had lunch by the river. Melbourne was showing off; it was a beautiful summer day, the sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds, it wasn’t too hot and watching people puffing along the river bank full of new year resolutions of fitness while we munched on our sandwiches was great people watching.

We then drove out to Port Melbourne and around the streets, looking for properties up for lease, picking and choosing which of the $1m+ flats we’d buy if we had won the lottery and rounded off the afternoon sitting by the Spirit of Tasmania ferry with a cup of tea looking at the beach and sniffing the sea air. Tomorrow we’re taking a friend I used to work with in London out to the Yarra Valley to visit the vineyards, we’re having fish and chips and a gossip with relatives on Friday, and have no plans at all, whatsoever for the weekend aside from talking to people back in the UK.

I love being on holiday.

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