It's been a while since Pearli has been in a pickle. I thought those days were over. Alas. Not.She uses the Cats' Mother's house as a place to sleep. At night. But not all night. In summer, she will curl up at the top of the stairs under a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Long before dawn, she's gone. Again.

It's that time of the month. Again. And for the second time in a row, I am powering up. I am managing to keep my promise - to myself - to post more frequently. The work on my house, and wanting to document it, is helping.

Friday's work saw half of the back stoep done. They can't work in front of the kitchen on a Friday: it's kitchen day and besides the dust, I - and the odd other-than-workman-interrupter - am constantly in and out, either using the outside kitchen and/or collecting herbs from the garden. It's likely that that will happen on a Saturday. I can happily live with that.

When we moved in, we discovered that Heath Robinson had done a lot of things around the Sandbag House. Needless to say, The Husband did a lot to address shoddy workmanship. One area where they cut corners was the compaction of the stoep and throwing a slab - with proper drainage - on the south side of the house. Addressing this has been on the to-do list. Forever.

Supper to supper on Saturday and Sunday. It was quite a weekend at the end of a looong week.Twenty-four hours, beginning with cold cuts of pork loin with roast vegetables and ending with homemade tomato pasta with passata I had made earlier, and with more roast vegetables - as a salad.

Twenty five years ago, today, The (then not) Husband met my Dad. Just a few weeks after he and I got together. It was Dad's 71st birthday, so today, he would have turned 96. To say that they hit it off, would be an understatement. They had an instant rapport: shared a love of beer, whisky and merciless teasing. Of me.