Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Eleventh

Jammy doughnut, smoothie and strawbugs.

Another late night, after dancing until well past witching hour, hence the late posting. The weather was glorious, so much so that I acquired a quite ludicrous bib-shaped sun burn during the afternoon, which looked rather silly when I changed into my glad rags in the evening.

The funny thing about donning glad rags is that my friends are generally, genuinely shocked to see me looking well turned out. I suppose this is one of the hazaards of working from home. I am, more often than not, make-up-less and dressed like a tramp when I see people after work.

Breakfasts One-Hundred-and-Nine and Ten

No 109: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and Banana.

No 110: Cinnamon rolls, donuts & other delicious things.

I got home far too late last night for breakfast musings, after an evening feasting on nettle soup and macaroni cheese.

Today's breakfast (I didn't eat it all myself) was nibbled during the royal wedding. Wasn't the Queen sweet in her custard yellow get-up? As for Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, there's no excuse for them.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Eighth

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and banana.

It transpires that if you get up very early and have breakfast at silly o' clock, you require second breakfast at 10 o' clock. (I didn't photograph the second breakfast: I was hoping to get away with calling it early elevenses, even if it was a distinctly cerealish affair.)

The fact that I am part dormouse must, in fact, save me a fortune in second breakfasts. Well, not a fortune; but you know, enough pennies to keep me in strawberry bonbons and stripey socks. And where would a girl be without those?

Breakfast the One-Hundreth-and-Seventh

Chocolate wheetos and banana.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a phone in possession of predictive texting will turn out garbled nonsense. Some recent gems from a friend include: "super doorstep" (super duper); "just missed junction off nounstaw" (motorway); and "wonderfed if you damaged a glass of wine in pub" (wondered and fancied).

Curiously, my phone won't learn my name. Every now and then I forget this and optimistically attempt to enter my name in a oner, rather than typing "ion" space "a," and then deleting the space, as is my wont. Here are some of the "words" my phone deduces I must want when I attempt to write my name: Goma, Homa, Imma, Inma, Inna, Hona, Honb, Honc, Hon2.

Breakfast the One-Hundreth-and-Sixth

Strawberry and banana smoothie (home-made).

I don't look like anyone famous (except, currently, Oliver Cromwell because a hairdresser gave me a pudding bowl haircut) so I'm not sure why the couple sitting next to me on the bus kept looking furtively towards me and then grinning. Unless they genuinely were laughing about sharing a mode of transport with a cello-wielding, frizzy- haired Oliver Cromwell look-alike in some rather garish yoga gear and mismatched spotty socks. And who could blame them really?

Speaking of yoga, I managed a headstand for a full fifteen breaths before clattering to the floor this evening. Still bloody hopeless at just about every other pose; but at least I've found my forte.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fifth

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and banana.

It's quite likely that I am going to end up like one of those kids who turns orange from drinking too much Sunny Delight, only my particular poison is cheese puffs. I ate my own body-weight in them today, along with a goodly quantity of chocolate, chili con carne and millionaire's shortbread.

I've always had an unhealthy fondness for preternaturally orange, cheesy foodstuffs. Box macaroni is, to me, the ultimate comfort food. I actually might prefer it to the real McCoy.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fourth

Strawberry & banana smoothie (home-made).

Today I have only this to say: Hurrah for Miss Ferguson and the completely wonderful VOTE!

I saw it this afternoon in St Andrews. So, so, so much fun. I am, once more, overcome with jealousy about the fact that I can neither singer or dance, nor indeed can I write musicals. Gah!

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Third

Chocolate wheetos and banana.

This evening I decided to mitigate the effects of having eaten nothing but three bowls of chocolate wheetos all day long with real food. I (and the Misses Shelley and Girling) had cod with warm lemon vinaigrette, baby new potatoes and rocket. Nom, nom. Oh, and we had strawberries and cream for pud.

Sometimes it's no bad thing to remind yourself that you can indeed cook. I have realised, of late, that it would be all too easy to subsist entirely on a diet of breakfast cereal, tortellini and spinach.

And for those of you worried about my cod, it was line caught -- so I think I'm a little bit off the hook there, if you'll forgive the metaphor (though not entirely, I know). Really, this particular supper ought to be made with monk fish, as less meaty fish tends to turn in to mush. Still, delicious mush it was.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Second

Chocolate wheetos (the inevitable result of late-night shopping) and banana.

This Guardian slide show made my day today.

I was most especially tickled by this one:

I wish I could draw (and paint). I peaked too soon. Aged 8 or so I painted a magnificent (though I say it myself) colonial scene featuring a couple of elephants with howdahs, and a few more shifting logs. The only blight on this masterpiece was that the reverse side identified the location as "Bethlehem." Apparently I wasn't much interested in painting the nativity that day.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-First

Toast with apple & pear spread and orange juice.

First thing's, first: I think you should all sponsor my certifiably bananas friend who, rather than making use of our cronky rail network, is cycling from John o' Groats to Land's End (against the prevailing wind).

In other business: it seems to me that with all this to-morning-suit or not to-morning-suit kerfuffle, David Cameron is rather stealing La Middleton's thunder. All talk of "the dress" has been eclipsed by speculation on whether or not the PM's jacket will be be-tailed or not…

Breakfast the One-Hundredth

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and orange juice.

Some days are petticoat days. Like today, for example. This was prompted in part by whimsy and in part by the fact that my jeans are currently out of service and I had to resort to a red dress.

I recommend that you don't forget that there's a small, foil-wrapped chocolate bunny in the back pocket of your jeans... it creates quite some mess.

Breakfasts Ninety-Five, Six, Seven, Eight and Nine

No 95: Apple cake and orange juice.

Poached eggs, bacon and sausage.

Poached egg and sausage.

Poached egg and sausage.

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and banana.

 I've been gallivanting again, hence the bumper batch of breakfasts -- in Skye this time.

 I was going to try to arrange the photos in a rather more pleasing fashion, but photoshop is provoking a spinning pizza of doom fit on my computer, and it's witching hour, and my patience isn't up to it.

Another thing my patience isn't up to, as my passengers from yesterday's very long drive can attest to, is caravans. When I am in charge, caravans will not be allowed on the A82, A86 or A87 -- except if driven by reasonable types (there was one such one yesterday) who pull over to let you past.

In other, entirely unrelated news, tonight in yoga, I managed a headstand -- much excitement.

Breakfast the Ninety-Fourth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

I stumbled accross this glorious Rudyard Kipling verse a while ago. Today was a frantic, only-managed-half-a-cup-of-tea sort of a day, so I can sympathise:

We had a kettle: we let it leak:

Our not repairing it made it worse.

We haven't had any tea for a week…

The bottom is out of the Universe!

Breakfast the Ninety-Third

Doppelganger shreddies, Crunch Nut Cornflakes and Banana. Oh and blackcurrant Lemsip.

I have been beavering away at brownie making this evening. Naturally this has involved a certain amount of spoon licking and quality control testing. I'm now feeling rather more hopped up on sugar than is perhaps wise at this late hour.

I'm also much in danger of being sucked into Wonders of the Solar System. Damn you BBC.

Breakfast the Ninety-Second

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

Winged creatures are conspiring to curtail my sleep at the moment. This morning I was rudely awakened by couple of crows holding forth about heavens knows what: though given the time of year I suppose they were probably making appreciative noises about the other's tail feathers.

Yesterday, and the day before, I was roused by a wasp attempting to find its way back out of my bedroom window. Oddly, it happened at almost exactly the same time both mornings. (I wonder if it was the same wasp.)

Given that I have been known to sleep through my alarm clock on a not too infrequent basis, I wonder whether perhaps the solution would be to have an alarm that makes a different noise every morning.

Breakfast the Ninety-First

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and strawberries.

It took me several minutes to locate the "on "button on the hoover this afternoon: a pretty damning indication of how long it's been since the last wielding... (The tag on the mop bucket further betrayed my limited dedication to household chore doing.)

Breakfast the Ninetieth

Somewhat decadent M&S breakfast (I didn't eat all four pains au chocolat).

After one internet application and about five (increasingly irrate) phone calls, I finally have my recycling boxes. They are emblazoned with a slogan saying "Make our city Edenburgh." A goal that would be alot easier to achieve, I suppose, if it didn't eight months to procure the council sanctioned boxes.

I have them now though, and the little bags for recycling household paper and even clothes (glorious!). It's been so long I was actually genuinely tickled when filling the paper bag with many months of hoarded newspapers and junk mail.

Breakfast the Eighty-Ninth

Strawberry, raspberry and banana smoothie. (Home-made.)

I had supper with the Mama this evening. Always delicious. And plentiful. I am now about three stone heavier, and edging ever closer to the early onset of Type 2 Diabetes.

For someone who severely curtailed my sugar intake as child, she certainly is making up for it now. This evening's fix came in the form of chocolate fairy cakes with peanut butter cream-cheese icing. Yum!

So desperate was I for sugar as a child that I used to sneak into the pantry and eat hundreds and thousands (that's sprinkles for you Americans) straight out of the box. I also used to eat my Dad's tooth-brushing power -- apparently even saccharin suited me.

Now that I think about it, I can't imagine where he bought this tooth powder from. Surely no one has sold anything like this since about 1894. It was probably some tremendously toxic confection that had been lurking at the back of a cupboard for 100 years.  (I can always rely on my Father to be making use of things the Edwardians would have considered outmoded.) I remember it came in a round container and to use it you dabbed a wet toothbrush (or pre-licked finger) in...

Breakfast the Eighty-Eighth

Doppelganger shreddies, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and Banana.

Tomorrow is going to be the day that I break the cycle of shifting things from my floor to my bed during the day, and from my bed to my floor at night time. (It's been going on for at least a week now, and the pile to shift just keeps getting bigger.)

I wish I was the sort of person who put their clean clothes away as soon as they dried, and knew whether or not they were likely to wear today's jumper again tomorrow. Instead, these clothes, along with books, bank statements, phone chargers etc just accumulate until I crack and tidy it all up, swearing that this will be the last tidy up.

I have the same problem with my desk. I don't think it would matter how big my desk was, I'd always be convinced that if it were a little bigger, there would be enough space. Instead, I end up hemmed in by books, hole punchers, pens, and half-drunk cups of tea, with the available work space reduced to the size of a sheet of A4 paper.

Breakfast the Eighty-Seventh

Doppelganger Shreddies, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and banana.

There is something rather wonderful about the idea of Tom Wilkinson as a fan of Friends. It just seems so unlikely somehow. Anyhoo, that's what The Grauniad says.

Another thing The Grauniad says is that there is a type of butterfly that prods caimans in the eyes with its proboscis in order to drinks their tears. Isn't that amazing?

It's just as well The Gruaniad is full of interesting reading fare: the pesky students are once again demonstrating that they are completely oblivious to the fact that most normal people get up early on Thursday mornings. It seems unlikely that I'm going to be able to sleep any time soon.

Breakfast the Eighty-Sixth

Doppelganger shreddies. 

I haven't started the Barbara Pym that my orange juice is resting on yet, but I'm very much looking forward to it. I read "Excellent Women" a while ago and loved it. She's the second Barbara I've fallen for. Barbara Trapido is most excellent too. Perhaps I ought to change my name to Barbara -- maybe there's something in the name that elicits literary brilliance.

Breakfast the Eighty-Fifth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

I know that yoga isn't a competitive sport; however, it's hard not to feel like you're losing when everyone else can put their head on the floor and you can't. Mostly I'm used to being quite adept at sports, with the notable exception of the high jump, oh and the javelin and shot put (but how much does one really mind not being able to launch a solid metal ball in to the air?). So, the fact that I remain so comprehensively hopeless at folding myself in half is beginning to rankle.

Failing to excel in something sporting is rather uncharted territory for me -- which is not to say that I'm some sort of sporting prodigy; it's just that I'm reasonably co-ordinated and long-limbed and this has tended to translate into an above average level of proficiency at hitting balls and running fast. But coordination and residual muscle tone from years of running around hockey pitches at school are no help in a yoga class.

I'm finally beginning to understand the look of undiluted terror that flashes across my less co-ordinated friends' faces when you throw them an apple or a set of keys... Some people are not made for catching things, and others -- it seems -- are not designed for folding in half.

Breakfasts Eighty-Two, Three & Four

No 82: Muesli, yoghurt and raspberries.

No 83: Bacon buttie.

No 84: Bacon and egg buttie (nearly forgot to photograph this one...).

More gadding this weekend: this time in Scotland, celebrating a friend's birthday. We had glorious weather, a most excellent bonfire (with marshmallows bien sur) and a good deal of shape-throwing (as my friend Melly Moo likes to call it).

The second bacon buttie of the weekend came at a cost: I managed to burn a nice, long (self-harm-esque) stripe in to my right arm with the frying pan.

Other than dancing like a dervish and burning myself, I've mostly spent the weekend rubbing my eyes. The trees are spawning. The good news is I've finally figured out how to put eye drops in. Up until now I have been incapable of not blinking just before the drops go in. This was particularly problematic the time when I hit myself in the eye with the roller ball of a deodorant (I squeezed the bottle and the roller ball came arcing out, straight into my left eye). I could really have used the relief provided by the drops...  Instead, I spent several days with my eye stinging and watering profusely.