Ah there is nothing quite like my Lyria today. First she indulged me in a little drawing, of which more another time. Then she made the warrior queen jog to the farmer’s market which begins today down the road.
She likes many of the things there, but especially one vendor, whom she has visited for several years. This younger son was kissed, and Lyria wished she might be kissed, and the recipe for vanilla granola still is not given up to my Lyria. Bread was purchased for what I am told is an exorbitant sum but it is made by paupers – why still paupers if the sum is thus, I am not certain – and yellow tomatoes and green cucumbers and spinach, and for the warriors salami, but it is organic and free of preservatives and all these things.
There was also dreadful singing, but I am told if I am not willing to risk my own voice, I had better not complain. It is said lightly.
Usually this is not mine to recount, but I am doubly pleased, for on return there was excellent word from my archangel and many pleasures to come. And now I will go sing to this younger son to remove that other from his tender ears.