Bread Poultice

Home at last, zimmering up to the door in the drizzle, insistent on going it alone. After a rest and a visit from Nurse Pauline, Inoxaparin injections, anti-nausea drugs in a driver and paracetamol - yes paracetamol for the pain, Macfarlane wants to bake bread. Though he's off his food he fancies the smell might awaken his appetite . So the frail, pyjama clad baker cut a dash in the kitchen. He calls for the flour and yeast, milk,salt seeds and herbs for his wonderfully eatable, much sought after, these-days-rarely-made loaf. The recently pristinised workplace was quickly adapted to include zimmer and chair.
When the flour finally settles in snow drift slopes on the recently prisine worktops, and the dough is set to rise to a golden mound , he returns to the recliner for an indulgence of tele. A pale but aromatic air of near-normality warms the mood.
If the taste buds aren't tittilated, that increasingly persistent cough may well benefit from an up-market application of that famous old wives remedy.
Personally I prefer mine toasted. Bring on the marmalade.
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