Dear Pernel Sanders,Picture this:
It is mid-Spring. Melvin and Badgley are running about our garden of wild-flowers, the sun beaming its way though the light cloud coverage, dancing amid the rich nature.
You are dressed in a cream boat-necked frock. As you mix cake batter in a large bowl, your dark-brown locks bounce around your lovely face.
As the sun teems through the glass pane of the window it highlights the tiny particles of flour in the air.
I sit at a large orchastratic piano in my lederhosen, gently stroking the keys (which are not made from elephant tusks), singing "My love, my golden rough. Take me away from it all when I feel I can't cope"
P.S. We have an endless supply of Freddos and Caramelo Koalas.
Always yours.
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