Breakfast the Fiftieth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

Sometimes I peer at my forehead wrinkles with the same sort of resignation that I imagine overcame King Cnut as the sea lapped about his ankles and he realised that no amount of wishful thinking was going to turn that tide around. Occasionally I convince myself that by being a little less gullible, I will slow the ravages of time (I only have wrinkles of astonishment: those lines you get on your forehead when you make a "wooooaaaah" face....). That said, I fully intend to go with nature rather than looking like the unholy apparition my friend Susie and I saw on the idiot box this evening.

There is something entirely unnerving about a person whose eyebrows don't move. This woman was toe-curlingly lifted and filled. Susie even suggested that with surgery gone so wrong, she probably ought not ever leave her house again.

Breakfast the Forty-Ninth

Muesli, yoghurt and banana.

I've just watched the last episode of The Promise; my withers are entirely wrung. My jaw hurts from gritting my teeth. And my eyes are all puffy.

Breakfast the Forty-Eighth

Eggs Florentine at the lovely Urban Angel. Yum!

Today I had brunch with my Mater, and tried to persuade her that she ought to hang the neighbours (and the expense) and buy a piano. Her neighbours would at least be overhearing some lovely playing, unlike my poor lot who were subjected to some very sketchy cello playing this afternoon.

I consider it one of life's great injustices that I inherited none of my Mama's musical talents. Instead, I take after my father: a music lover with absolutely no aptitude for creating it. Actually, I think I may have a little more aptitude than mon pere: I once saw him deliver "Money, Money, Money" as a soliloquy in the local pantomime because his singing was so patchy. And, when he was a boy, a frustrated piping teacher once announced to my Great Grandfather, himself a good piper -- "there's more music in the fucking plumbing than there is in that boy."

Breakfast the Forty-Seventh

Cinnamon & raisin bagel, and mango & passion fruit smoothie.

One of the lovely, lovely things about Edinburgh is that you can still see the stars. Obviously it's nothing like a night on Skye when the whole sky is ablaze with stellar pin-pricks; but still, I do so enjoy catching The Plough winking down at me as I amble home after a glass of wine and a catch-up with a friend. Sometimes I wonder whether I don't spend too much time looking up. Between star-gazing and cloud-ogling, it's incredible I don't trip up more often.

Breakfast the Forty-Sixth

Soda bread with even more lashings of honey & butter and mango & passionfruit smoothie.

Oh cruel fate. This evening I fancied a peanutbutter and banana milkshake. Mouth watering in anticipation, I prised open the Mackies ice cream tub only to discover that it contained something green -- frozen spinach soup I think... Because laziness trumps even my sweet tooth, I have gone without. So, a good evening for my waistline I suppose, but rather bad luck on my appetite for sugary, fatty things.

Breakfast the Forty-Fifth

Soda bread with lashings of butter & honey, and mango & passionfruit smoothie.

I am ludicrously stiff this evening. It's because I'm such an insufferable teacher's pet. Last night was yoga night again and my instuctor said "very nice" to one of my poses. I am a terrible praise junkie, so I always want more. In my desperate pursuit of another yogic gold star I think I pulled just about every muscle in my body.

I would have hoped that by aged 28 I had outgrown the need for praise from teacher types. Alas, the truth is, I can be sustained for weeks on the morsels of mild affirmation thrown my way by persons in instructive positions.

Breakfast the Forty-Fourth

Muesli and banana. 

I've had far too much wine to write anything of any consequence (not that I ever do really). I can merely advise that falling over in yoga class is infectious: once one person goes, the whole room goes.

Also, I'm rather intrigued by the BBC's South Riding. I haven't watched the first episode yet. But I'm looking forward to it. I do so love a good costume drama, and this one has the glorious Penelope Wilton in it, which can't be bad.

Breakfast the Forty-Third

Muesli with blueberries and banana and yoghurt.

Miss Ferguson, of Fife, who was staying last night, was all for a bit of photographic variety -- hence the above. I am half-dressed and half pyjama-clad because I couldn't find my bra (I do own more than one; but the laundry is piling up rather). I found it after breakfast, as I suspected I would: hunger renders me rather too hysterical for simple tasks like actually seeing the thing I am looking for when it is right under my nose. It took me a long time to learn this about myself. Time was, there would have been tears over the elusive over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. (Boulder is of course something of a misnomer in my case, but I digress.)

In other news, it turns out that I had a setting on this blog that meant only registered users, or some such, could comment. I have remedied this. You may now, if so inclined, post as much invective as you like to the comments section, completely anonymously. Happy maligning all.

Breakfast the Forty-Second

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam.

Once upon a time, when I was bored in an airport, I bought some expensive mascara. It turned out to be magical, non-clumpy mascara of a kind I'd never encountered before. Then I lost it. Bereft, I bought some more. Then I found the lost one, and for the last two years or so, I've been eking out the magical mascara.

Today, I attempted to procure some more of the same. Alas, the makers have discontinued it. An orange sales lady (orange in colour that is, not a purveyor of fruits) told me that they'd brought out a similar version, which she thought was even better. I wanted so much to believe her: so, silencing the voice in my head that said "you can't trust this woman, she has eyelashes so clumpy they look like insects' legs," I bought it. I now look like I've super-glued a couple of upside down centipedes to my eyelids.

Breakfast the Forty-First

Muesli with bananas.

The Lord of the Rings will now forever be The Lord of the Lambs to me. Whilst practising my French on a friendly frog today, I committed a rather hilarious malaprop, rendering Le Seigneur des Anneaux, Le Seigneur des Agneaux.

I suppose The Lord of the Lambs would be some sort of ill-judged sequel to The Silence of the Lambs. Or perhaps an animated caper involving riverdancing sheep. I'd like to see that.

Breakfast the Fortieth

Muesli, yoghurt & blueberries.

Golly, forty breakfasts. How positively biblical. Fitting then that we are approaching the ten year anniversary of some good Old Testament-style pestilence and plague -- namely the Foot and Mouth outbreak. I'd almost forgotten this had happened, until today's rather graphic lunchtime news report.

Well, there you have it readers, a couple of tenuous biblical references and I have have found the parallel between my scribblings (typings) and a scourge of the agricultural industry...

Breakfast the Thirty-Ninth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with raspberry jam, & some cherries (again).

My fingernails are a disgrace. This is unsurprising given that I own nothing in the way of nail paraphernalia. I almost never cut my fingernails because I hate the odd sensation you get in your fingertips when you do. It's sort of like touching cotton wool. Or when you eat too many toffees and your teeth feel furry. (Shudder)

They're not super long or anything barmy like that. I just wait for them to break off, or occasionally I'll tear a particularly raggedy one off. Sometimes though I suspect that if I were a better sort of a grown up I'd just learn to muster the odd sensation and not wander about looking like I've been digging for treasure by hand.

Breakfast the Thirty-Eighth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with raspberry jam & some cherries.

This evening a friend gave me a cello lesson. Incredibly, I wasn't completely hopeless. This definitely bucks a trend: I've rarely found myself to be any good at the things I'd like to be good at, such as the cello. Instead I have an array of bizarre, or frankly just pedestrian, aptitudes.

To wit: I'm actually pretty good at parking -- but have no car. I can eat an entire can of condensed milk in one sitting with no ill effects. I'm rather good at the hurdles -- actual ones, metaphorical ones trip me up every time. I can navigate quite proficiently so long as I am allowed to turn the map upside down, and I can stick my big toes straight up at right angles to my feet keeping the remaining toes flat on the floor.

I would however like to be good at a few worthwhile and satisfying things, like painting, or dancing, or doing cartwheels. Even being a good knitter would be nice. I can only do scarves; and always have to google how to cast off.  But perhaps the cello could be my as yet undiscovered forte. All I need now is an anonymous benefactor to give me a cello and pay for my lessons. (And while I'm asking for things from anonymous benefactors, a two-bedroom flat in Stockbridge, or around Broughton Street, would be lovely too.)

Breakfast the Thirty-Seventh

Toast with pear & apple spread.

Recently I've been feeling very peeved that my parents didn't turn me into a child star. I'm sure I'd have sidestepped the descent into drug-addiction and kleptomania that seems to afflict most former silver-screen cherubs and instead I'd be starring in all sorts interesting things. I bet I'd have much nicer teeth too. If I have a daughter, I'm putting her on the stage.

Breakfast the Thirty-Sixth

Honey Nut Cornflakes.

Methinks that some cunning marketeer at Joules may have decided to pray upon lovelorn singletons this Valentine's Day. I just got an email from them wishing me a Happy Valentine's Day and advising "Roses are red, some of our dresses are blue, here are two spring looks to inspire you." Surely this is a shameless attempt at bating the loveless to indulge in a spot of retail therapy...

Breakfast the Thirty-Fifth

Toast with pear & apple spread.

Today I caught a bus. Not something I'm required to do very often in Edinburgh, what with everything being pretty close by and so on. The number 16 rolled up, disgorged a few people and I made to get on: at which point the driver held up his hand in imperious fashion and scowled at me. I almost expected him to bellow "you shall not pass" before ushering Frodo Baggins on to the bus. Instead, after some time, some dithering and not entirely un-hobbit-like people tumbled out and the driver gestured that I might proceed. Whatever happened to speaking?

Edinburgh bus drivers, in my experience, are rather a cranky lot. I have on several occasions sprinted for the bus, arrived just as the doors were closing and then had the bus driver glower at me and drive off, leaving me panting (and swearing) on the pavement. Once I was hit by a bus -- well, technically the bus hit my bicycle -- and the bus driver, having established that I was alive, yelled at me. I was so gobsmacked I just dragged my bike (it no longer wheeled) to the side of the road and hobbled back to work.

Breakfast the Thirty-Fourth

Muesli, yogurt and banana.

Today I had one of those glorious lazy days of lounging about in my PJs til well past lunch time and nattering on the phone to friends. The sun made an appearance, which called for a walk, and then Miss Shelley -- of the Peculiar Presents -- and I played several rounds of Farm Frenzy 2. She's recently acquired a new computer and it offered a free trial of this game.

I'm not much of a one for computer games (nor is the lovely Miss Shelley), but this is quite the most hilarious thing I have ever encountered. Mostly it involved keeping chickens supplied with well-watered grass, and collecting their eggs in order to sell them to buy powered-egg and biscuit-making machines. In each round you had to collect a certain number of eggs, buy a few chickens, and make a certain number of biscuits etc. So far so simple, but this is the hilarious bit: your efforts were frequently thwarted by marauding panda bears who would lob your chickens across the farm yard, thus killing them. Probably this is one of these things that you have to experience for yourself, but I can't tell you how hard we laughed.

Breakfast the Thirty-Third

Honey Nut Cornflakes and banana.

I think my clothes come to life when I'm not looking and break out of my cupboard and drawers. I often walk into my bedroom and have no idea how it got to be so messy. I was commiserating about this with chanteuse extraordinaire Sophie Ramsay. Her theory is that "if you give clothes an inch, they will take a mile." She said if you leave your drawer a touch open, they will leap out and throw themselves on the floor.

In addition to possessed clothing, I'm also plagued by miscellaneous scraps of paper which all seem to have something important scrawled on them. I'm sure other people don't have this problem. I've met tidy people, and they don't seem to be endlessly toiling to maintain order like I am. I think there may be a gene for tidiness, and if you don't have it you will spend your life battling to keep your desk clear of papers. And your floor clear of clothes.

Breakfast the Thirty-Second

Honey Nut Cornflakes and banana.

I have just returned from food heaven, namely Cafe Marlayne on Thistle Street. I feasted on scallops and black-pudding, and then Monkish with mussels in a scrummy lightly curried sauce. Yum, yum, yummy, yum, yum. No breakfast will ever match this. I think I'm going to have to become a more accomplished cook. I do a good line in comforting nosh, but can't really make anything that a Frenchman wouldn't turn his nose up at.

Must take myself off to bed pronto. I slept terribly last night. I kept having nightmares and waking up with my heart-thumping as an awful white spectre loomed overhead. Turns out the spectre was my lampshade, in the same place it's always been. Ho hum.

Breakfast the Thirty-First

Muesli with yoghurt and raspberries (again).

It's on days like today that I worry I have some form of extremely early onset dementia. This afternoon, I went from my bedroom/office to the kitchen three times before I came back with what I wanted. On the first trip I walked into the kitchen, raided the Honey Nut Cornflake box for a mid-afternoon hit of sugar, then returned to my desk and sat down. Thirty seconds later, I realised why I'd got up in the first place.

On the second trip, I grabbed another handful of Honey Nut Cornflakes, and my camera, and returned to my desk. Once there I realised I had forgotten to also pick up the all-important connecting the camera to the computer cable. Gah. (On the third trip, as a sort of penance, I denied myself any Honey Nut Cornflakes.)

Breakfast the Thirtieth

Muesli, yoghurt and raspberries.

Are my sister and I unique in being incapable of seeing mashed potatoes without bursting into a rendition of the Bodger and Badger theme tune? It's one of our only shared traits. (Well, that and unruly hair -- but she tames hers.) My new flatmate and I had bangers and mash for supper this evening. And while she knew the song, it didn't seem to her the most natural thing in the world to greet the sight of mash with a rousing chorus of "Everybody knows Badger loves MASHED POTATOES."

The funny thing is, even as a child, I loathed Bodger and Badger. (Along with Chucklevision - ugh!) But the song is one hell of an earworm (aren't you glad there's a dedicated word for this?). I dare you to watch this and not get it stuck in your head.

Breakfast the Twenty-Ninth

Poor Man's Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and Banana.

Perhaps it's Roald Dahl's fault, but I do love foxes. Even urban ones (I saw one on my way home this evening).  Especially urban ones actually, because I'm contrary; and because they're given a hard time for ripping open bin bags and covering the streets in household detritus. But that's only because the New Town mafia in Edinburgh are so violently opposed to wheelie bins that we have to put our bin bags out for the foxes to break into. (Apparently wheelie bins are a deviation from Robert Adam's vision of the New Town in ways that Range Rovers and parking meters simply aren't.)

This demonisation of wheelie bins is the reason that most Edinburgh stairwells smell like mould and have tacky pools of heaven-knows-what dribbled all down the stairs: because people have forgotten bin day and left their leaky bin bags languishing on the landing for days on end.

Breakfast the Twenty-Eighth

Boiled eggs and soldiers (with marmite).

Today I was a fledgling sort of a domestic goddess. I cleaned, I cooked (made a batch of ratatouille and confected apple puree out of the slightly too far gone apples that have been winking reproachfully at me all week). I bought a rug; I even did some yoga.

I say fledgling because a better sort of goddess would not have poured egg yoke all down her front and not noticed until 3 in the afternoon. And would not have "cleaned" out a cupboard by non-discriminately transferring the clutter from place to another. Oh well.

Breakfast the Twenty-Seventh

Half a hog roast with haggis & apple sauce; half a cheese burger with onions & ketchup.
(Others halves consumed by Miss Ferguson.)

BreakfastAtTheFarmers'MarketToday. AsYouCanSee,IOptedForTheHealthyOption.

The above is in dedication to Brief Encounter, which I watched this evening with a friend. Every time I see it, it takes me several days to quash the urge to utter everything in clipped, anxious bursts.

And I'm not sure I'll ever cease to be amused by the scene with the preternaturally low-voiced little girl. My friend Miriam, the milliner, does quite the best Margaret impression. In searching for this scene on YouTube, I stumbled upon this Victoria Wood spoof. Too, too funny.

Breakfast the Twenty-Sixth

Muesli, banana & yoghurt.

 Sometimes you really do have to split the infinitive. For example, "The other day I was nipping into the cinema quickly to pick up some tickets."  I suppose I could have said "the other day I was nipping quickly into the cinema to pick up some tickets." Anyway, the point is, the other day, in an attempt to procure some cinema tickets post-haste -- before meeting a friend -- I was thwarted by the non-committal moseying trajectory of a dozy student-type.

Why can't people walk in straight lines? Meandering is for rivers, not people. The only people who should be allowed unpredictable routes are the speedy. Tortoises should choose a line of progress and stick to it. That way we hares may weave about with greater ease. In fact, I think pavements ought to have slow and fast lanes. And if a slow-coach should wander into the fast lane it should be acceptable to clout them with your handbag.

Breakfast the Twenty-Fifth

Muesli with blueberries and yoghurt.

It's funny how, on a bad day, it just takes a tricky crossword clue to send you over the edge. Or not being able to find your keys. Lucky then, that almost all cares can be temporarily blown away by some injudicious spending on the Toast website.

I'm not much of a one for retail therapy, but I think if you're going to go that way, you could do worse than Toast. All I want out of life really is to earn enough to buy all of my clothes from them. Shallow, I know, but they are so very lovely. Oh, and also Jigsaw. I think that's all I need to be content. (Well, that and love, but I'm trying to stay away from the precipice at the moment so I can't, as Scarlett O'Hara would say, think about that now.)

On a completely unrelated matter, a woman on the BBC Scotland news asked to hazard which foods are currently in season just answered (somewhat uncertainly, I concede) pineapples. I suppose they're in season somewhere, but surely they meant local produce. Surely?

Breakfast the Twenty-Fourth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with raspberry jam.

The only thing I have to say today is AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And not in a good way. (Actually, there are a lot of things I could say here; but they're not so very savoury.)

Breakfast the Twenty-Third

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with almond-butter, banana & honey. 

Who will the BBC wheel out for major news events when John Simpson retires? Also, how does he get places so fast? I suppose they must fly him out whenever news is brewing.

I honestly can't imagine anything newsworthy happening without some badly-synced, pixelated footage of Simpson shouting over the top of whatever is going on.