Got distracted from writing today and went blackberry mad. I'm not talking about the wireless handheld device either. I'm talking about the plump, juicy variety prevalent in the fields where I walk Molly-dog.
It started in earnest last year. Ooh, I thought. Shame not to pick some to fling in a crumble. Ten thousand kilos and forty eight crumbles later it had turned into a full-blown obsession. My eyes started gleaming whenever I happened upon a particularly plumptious beast and I would willingly fight my way through a bed of nettles to reach it. It got so that I could sniff out a fresh crop if the wind was in the east, and I'd happily tromp miles out of my way clutching what became fondly known as my Blackberry Jar. Oh happy days.
I thought the novelty might have worn off, but no. Last week I became aware that there was something a-ripening in the hedgerows, and my mouth started watering. I could hardly wait to get out there this afternoon, although Molly got a bit fed-up. She doesn't like all the stopping and starting. It confuses her.
Trouble is, the children don't like home-made puddings of the crumble variety (I know. What are they like?) or any other variety for that matter, and even Lovely Husband's going to start feigning illness if I keep wheeling them out, but I'm buggered if I know what else to do with the blighters.
Any suggestions? Don't tell me to wean myself off picking them. I'm addicted.