The tale of the poisonous rosehips

I love the early morning mists, the dappled low light, the crackling fire (heck, I’ll light it even if it is 20ºC) and nature’s bounty.

My kitchen has been transformed into an almost perfect scene from Country Living magazine for the first time in years.

Trying to create wholesome goodies last year was impossible because, in addition to the strain of planning my wedding, there was hardly any fruit around. The weather was just so bad that I’m sure EL James took her inspiration from it (as I did for my marriage, Fifty Days of Grey).

In the end, both exercises were futile. No chutney, no hubby.

The Man Around the House is now my 70-year-old dad. But at least the house is now full of apples and blackberries.

On Saturday, I spent an afternoon baking with a couple of pals, one of whom has a tree in her garden that is so laden with apples that the boughs are ready to snap.

I ended up with repetitive strain injury after spending three hours peeling and cutting.

By then I was bored and in pain. The only way forward was to grab a nearby bottle of whisky to add into my apple mixture along with the cinnamon, and take a nice big gulp... for medicinal purposes of course.

At least no one would die with a touch of booze in the mix, unlike when my mother recently attempted to poison her nearest and dearest.

She harvested a so-called crop of rosehips, made a crumble and licked the berry juice off the spoon.

Twenty minutes later she was very ill and my stepfather was forced to mop her brow for three days.

The rosehips were clearly something else... probably spindle or deadly nightshade (is that red)?

So I have bought her a wild food identification book and made her an appointment with Specsavers.

As for me, I have already been and, perched at the end of my pretty little nose, is a pair of rosecoloured glasses perfect to appreciate my newly single status.

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