Divas Don't Knit Read Online Free PDF

lorry drivers, all texting their friends and moaning about the weather because it’s pouring, and one of them is complaining that he’s supposed to be in Doncaster by ten, which, given that we’re only twenty miles from Dover and it’s nearly six, is going to be a bit of a challenge, unless Ferrari have started making lorries.
    ‘I love pancakes.’
    Archie’s got maple syrup in his hair.
    ‘Do you? Well, that’s good, sweetheart, but try to be a bit more careful. You’re getting very sticky, you know.’
    ‘I like being sticky. It’s one of my best things.’
    I’ve only ordered a coffee since I ate too many brownies earlier on with Ellen, who’s just texted me:
Good luck on first night, will call later. Love you. PS. Look out for Captain Birds Eye.
    ‘Did Daddy like pancakes? I can’t remember.’
    Jack’s giving me one of his anxious looks. He’s been doing his Did Daddy Like This routine quite a lot lately; I think he’s worried he’s starting to forget him.
    ‘Yes, he loved them.’
    He nods, satisfied.
    Archie pauses between mouthfuls. ‘Yes, and he liked lots of sauce.’
    ‘It’s not sauce, you stupid, it’s syrup. Mable syrup, that’s what it’s called.’
    Archie looks momentarily crestfallen, but rallies by jabbing Jack with his fork. Jack screeches and the lorry drivers start giving us Looks.
    ‘Archie, that was very horrible, and if you do it again you’ll have to have a baby spoon. And Jack, please stop teasing him, and it’s maple syrup, not mable. Let’s just finish eating, shall we? Gran will be waiting for us.’
    ‘Yes, and the lorry might be there and I can help, can’t I, Mum? I can help carry things. George said I was a very strong boy.’
    ‘Yes, Jack.’
    ‘I can help, too. I’m strong too. Look.’
    Archie holds his plate above his head.
    Great. More mable syrup in his hair.
    They both get a free lollipop at the till to keep sugar levels at an absolute maximum, and there’s a brief but very bitter exchange about whose turn it is to sit in the front which I solve by putting them both in the back, so they sit united in hatred, jiggling about and singing silly songs with the occasional rude word thrown in, which I’m pretending I can’t hear, until we get our first glimpse of the sea.
    Broadgate Bay is definitely one of those seaside towns where the tide went out a long time ago and looks like staying out. But among all the bungalows and bucket-and-spade shops there are signs that things might be on the turn: heritage colours have started to appear on a few front doors of the Victorian terraces, and there are geraniums in the occasional window box. People who can’t afford Whitstable have begun moving in, and the library in the high street still looks very grand with its grey stone columns and steps, and we’ve even got a new art gallery, even if it does mainly sell posh birthday cards and pretty watercolours by the kind of artists you’d be very surprisedto find on the shortlist for the Turner Prize, unless Stormy Sunsets become a special new category. And Gran says the local council’s getting very excited about the competition for Best Seaside Town (Small), and we’re in with a good chance this year because the judges are fed up with the same places always winning so they’ve changed all the rules.
    As we drive past the shop I can see Gran’s done a new window display in honour of the competition, with what looks like a pyramid of red, white and blue wool, a few jumper patterns pinned to the green felt on the back wall and a vase of dusty plastic flowers; so I think a new window display might be moving up to the top of my list.
    The shop looks quite faded and the gold Butterworth’s Wools lettering has gone patchy from all the sun and salt, which is something else that needs sorting, but I think I’ll wait for a while because I’m thinking of changing the name. McKnits is the favourite so far; officially I’m still a Mackenzie-Jones, since Nick and I