Feels like digging in the sea

Today I put the new desk (£60 from Ikea, an upgrade from the £50 Argos jobbie which didn't even have all it's screws when we got it) into the desk corner, took apart the old one a bit (not difficult, what with all those missing screws) and dumped it.

After sitting at my swanky new workstation for about ten minutes, I realised that it really was time to do something about the draughty window. It's a very fancy window, but as draughty as it is pretty. So I dug out the ancient dusty pack of draught excluder and tried to figure out how to stick it on. Turns out the glue was all dried out and it wouldn't stick to the wood at all. It would, however, stick to the sole of my shoe. And when I say stick, I mean properly stuck. There's still a bit on there. Anyway, after ten minutes of farting around with it, I gave up and shoved the whole lot into the bin, and jammed a rolled up carrier bag into the window jam and shut it. As an emergency measure, it worked well, stopping the worst of the gail from coming in, so I left it at that and answered some emails.

Until the hail started. I'm not sure whether I saw it through the window or felt it spattering the backs of my hands as I typed first. Yes, that's right. I excluded the draughts but not the falling ice crystals, which somehow got in anyway. I think I'm beaten.

Told you it was pretty.

Sometimes less really makes more feel like more

So after all that, it's March and the bear egg is still in the back of the cupboard from clearing the table for Christmas dinner. I'll drag it out at some point.

Today, however, I drowned my sorrows in golden syrup. I decided to make Danielle Raine's flapjack recipe  again, but this time try harder not to burn it. Here's what I ended up with.

Don't look at the gunk on the tiles behind the stove. You know yours is the same. I'm going to clean it tomorrow. Probably.

So it looks like a huge quantity of flapjack, but it really isn't. I made the amount in Danielle's recipe and stuck it in two standard sized tins and squashed it really really really flat all over. Then after it was baked, I cut each tray into a ridiculous 36 small bars. That makes 72 from one pack of butter and half a bag of oats.

Why so small? Because being allowed to have a THIRD flapjack is far more exciting for a greedy little boy than being given one large one, which, lets face it, is eaten just as quickly. The possibilities for bribery are bewildering.

And yes, the two pieces missing were eaten by me while still warm and went very nicely with a well-earned cup of tea.