All in all a very nice weekend. I am a firm advocate of preservative free wine.

Somehow we managed to get a place with gorgeous mountain view all the way to the coast. i did end up being the wino sleeping on the couch, but it was a very comfy couch and i was only very gently mocked for my morning womble impression.

i'm suprised how comfortable i am with them all, but i shouldn't be as they are all lovely lovely people.

very happy that others shared my slothful frame of mind. and we were all very nice to our friend's ex who for some reason decided it was appropriate to come away with us. we went for a wander, prodding through various tacky tourist shops and with a secret coffee-hunting agenda. we eventually found a place that also gave us enormous scones. really. size of a baby dolphin. whipped cream on the side that i was worried could collapse and destroy small villages, requiring Naomi Robson to come out and cover the tragedy and thus unleashing the end of the world because that woman is scary and evil.

but somehow this started a conversation about The Legend of Old Scone, someone challenged me to write it and so i did.

[i generally say "scone" with a short o, like 'scon'. in this case, i think you need to stretch out the o in old and say scone with similar. it's lots of fun if you imagine that you're a grizzled sailor in a yellow hat, a big beard and a pipe]

The Legend of Old Scone

You will not hear it, this name is only spoken in terrified whispers in utmost need or muttered by the unfortunate depraved.

You will not read this name in any book for it is only in the depth of a winter night that any would dare write it, when the night is darkest and the handwriting most difficult to decipher.

Even the mightiest of bakers needs to have a bit of a sit down and strong sugary tea to recover if the name is even thought of. But they know it, they know it as surely as they hear the rattle of an immense tea trolley on a quiet night or make a secret sign to themselves when the sun disappears behind cloud reminiscent of a doily. They have seen with their own eyes the scratched carvings on the inside of their ovens -- scratches not made by man, woman, beast or anything of nature born. They fear the legend of Old Scone.

It began, as many things do, in a dark place. A single light shone in streets whipped by salt tang breeze. Anyone passing by would have noted the light in the bakery as unusual, and perhaps stopped in to enquire if aught were amiss -- for in this once upon a time, bakers only practiced their art by day and sold their wares before eve. But the streets were empty and no questions were asked of Sylvester the Baker and his nocturnal activities.

Sylvester the Baker was a proud man and an ambitious one. His moustache was bristling with delight as he rubbed his hands gleefully in front of the oven door. He wondered why no one had thought of this before. By practicing his art by night, he could sell his wares by morning, well before eve. His fortune would be made and a life of gentle luxury awaited.

In the dark of night, Sylvester baked an hugged greedy dreams to himself.

There is a reason why the bakers practiced their art by day and sold their wares by eve. It started with a distant clinking of crockery on a heavy trolly. Sylvester the Baker twirled his fine moustache and paid it no mind, hearing only the sound of coins dropping into his pocket. A shadow crossed the room as if a great doily had drifted across the fat moon, but Sylvester the Baker continued to scatter poopy seeds as if nothing had happened.

A toasty warmth crept into the bakery, eerie and unnatural, extending its tendrils to clutch at the greedy heart of Sylvester the Baker, which in turn began to beat faster. The oven door rattled on its hinges, softly at first, but then more insistent. Long forgotten amongst his dreams of wealth and moustache grooming, Sylvester remembered now the whispers, old stories of the nameless dread that dwelt in bakeries. The ancient curse upon hearth and home, the vengeance of comfort taken and never returned. He muttered under his breath as the warmth infused him, "Old Scone..."

The sound of the oven door wrenched off its hinges was the last Sylvester the Baker ever heard.

The people of the town were less concerned than might be expected, for they were told "it's only jam".