The Wrong Message.

I've spent a good proportion of today driving Linda through various rural idyls with a stop at a pleasant country pub in a village made out of money.

No drive with Linda is compete without a visit to a garden centre.
I didn't mutter under my breath and I didn't stump around with the face of a man who'd lost a fiver and found a quid.
No, I was very good, I distinctly remember smiling at one point.
I went to look at the aquarium section then on to the 'book-store' which was filled with all those books that suggest, although we're on our uppers, we British like nothing better than to have a good old sardonic laugh at ourselves.
But I know my intellectual limits.
A book in the children's section caught my eye.
I photographed the cover and, once home, made some additions:

It dawned on me that there's probably a whole new sardonic laughter publication here.