Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Forty-Second

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

As you may have gleaned, I've rather a fondness for honey, so I was tickled by this article in The Grauniad: Consider Honey.

Isn't this incredible:

A bee would need to travel a distance equivalent to three times the circumference of the earth to produce an ordinary jar of honey.

Perhaps I shall have honey for breakfast tomorrow. Yum yum.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Forty-First

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam and strawberry & banana smoothie (home-made).

Today a friend and I watched the whole of the BBC Pride and Prejudice series from start to finish. I can think of nothing I'd rather have done on this rainy, blustery bank holiday. I didn't change out of my pyjamas until 4 in the afternoon, almost a new record for me.

I could live in my PJs. Sometimes, when I have lots to do, I deliberately stay in them to prevent me from leaving the house before I've done everything I need to. (I am at least sensible enough to realise that they're not to be worn outside of one's home.)

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fortieth

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam and smoothie.

I have once again begun the hunt for a flat mate. I'm sure it will all work out, once I've sifted out applications from 22-year-olds, middle-aged perverts and hippies.

There's nothing like a name like Leaf to fill you with visions of some greasy-haired beatnik moving in and trying to persuade you to start wearing clothing weaved out of reclaimed plug-hole hair.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Ninth

Green smoothie (kiwis, apples & limes as it turns out)

Somewhat measly-looking breakfast, but fear not, it was gulped as I searched for house keys, hand bag etc to go to my friends' house where yummy things were plentiful.

I stayed up well past witching hour last night with Miriam the Milliner watching Jane Eyre, so that's why this is popping up so late.

These two Downton Abbey spoofs made me cry with laughter (thank you Miss McCleskey):

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Eighth

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam and green smoothie again.

I look absurd. (More absurd than normal that is.) I woke up this morning with a sore lower eyelid on my left eye, which was a little swollen. Over the course of today it has got progressively more sore, and more swollen.

I now look like some creature is going to burst forth from my eyelid (I hope not). I can't think why I ever watched Alien, or that channel 4 series about parasites, insects etc that burrow inside you and lay eggs and what not. Yuck!

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Seventh

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam and a kiwi and other green things smoothie.

This evening I had chocolate chip cookies for supper. Home-made ones. And wine. I think we can all agree that this is an entirely reasonable sort of thing to sup on of a Thursday night.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Sixth

Doppelganger shreddies.

I don't know very much about Adele, except that she sings some reasonably easy on the ears songs and is sort of militantly chubby (based on a radio interview I heard once); but I can't say I'll be rushing out to contribute to her livelihood having read this:

Speaking to Q magazine, the Rolling in the Deep singer said, "I'm mortified to have to pay 50%! [While] I use the NHS, I can't use public transport any more. Trains are always late, most state schools are shit, and I've gotta give you, like, four million quid – are you having a laugh? When I got my tax bill in from [the album] 19, I was ready to go and buy a gun and randomly open fire."

I'd be thrilled if I was paying £4 million in tax.

Incidentally, why is it that talk of weight is always so polarised: there is a good middle ground between "plus size" -- which the media is endlessly telling us is the size "real women" are --  and emaciated.

Somewhere along the line someone decided that average weight constitutes "normal" and that normal is healthy; however given that 60% of people in this country are overweight, average can't be a good yardstick for what is healthy.

I must say I find it rather wearying always to be reading that I am abnormal given that I'm probably exactly the size that a woman hoping to remain fertile and avoid heart disease ought to be.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fifth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

The Danes have banned Marmite. But what will people have on their toast? It all seems a bit unfair.

It rather reminds me of "The King's Breakfast" (another A.A. Milne favourite):

The King asked

The Queen, and

The Queen asked

The Dairymaid:

"Could we have some butter for

The Royal slice of bread?"

The Queen asked the Dairymaid,

The Dairymaid

Said, "Certainly,

I'll go and tell the cow

Now

Before she goes to bed."

The Dairymaid

She curtsied,

And went and told

The Alderney:

"Don't forget the butter for

The Royal slice of bread."

The Alderney

Said sleepily:

"You'd better tell

His Majesty

That many people nowadays

Like marmalade

Instead."

Breakfasts One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Nine to One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Four

No. 129: Yoghurt & granola and a smoothie; No. 130: Toast & raspberry jam and a yoghurt; No. 131: Sausage, Bacon & Egg (egg not pictured...); No 132: Sausage & Bacon; No 133: Muesli; No 134: Special K cluster thingys & apple juice.

Many breakfasts at once again. I've been away on the West coast with friends having altogether too much fun -- climbing mountains, sea kayaking and eating deliriously happy-making quantities of seafood.

Seeing as I was so close, I popped home to Skye for a night too. I lost breakfast number 132 en route: the fatal interaction of a slight hangover, winding roads and the sight of the ferry rolling up and down. (Yep, that's right, I must be one of the only people for whom the mere sight of a boat on choppy waters is enough to induce sickness.)

On the way back I was recommended ginger tea. It worked rather well, though I did burn my tongue very badly drinking it out of one of those stupidly hot thermos cup thingys.

Whilst home, my Papa and I built a bird house. Here it is in the work shed precariously balanced on some rolled-up lino. It even has a rain gutter with a contraption to drain the water into a drinking bowl for the birdies.

I'm back in Edinburgh now and the weather has taken a turn towards the apocalyptic. I've had to resurrect my winter PJs and fire up the hottie bottie.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Eighth

Special K cluster thingys and apple & ginger juice.

I saw this headline today, "Grooming 'far worse than thought,'" and immediately thought of neat coiffures and well-ironed togs. (In fact it was the headline to an altogether depressing article that had nothing to do with hairdressing.)

I suppose this is what comes from attending a school that actually awarded a "good grooming" prize: not an award that I was ever in danger of receiving, given that my hair was always a bird's nest, the hem on my skirt was invariably half down, and my jumpers were full of holes.

At one stage we used to have to present ourselves for a uniform check before we were permitted to proceed to breakfast. Every morning, I would have to colour blue little patches all over my legs in order to disguise the holes in my tights.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seventh

Special K clustery thingys and strawberries.

This afternoon, the woman in the oh-so-decadent sandwich shop asked me if I'd just finished my exams. These days I'm generally flattered when someone takes me for a young thing; but it did also cross my mind that her assumption was perhaps based less on my youthful glow, and more on the fact that I have become so terminally scruffy of late.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Sixth

Cinnamon roll and yoghurt drink thingy.

I gobbled my breakfast on the go today, on my way to meet Miss Ferguson, who was painting her bedroom. I helped.

I am full of sneezes at the moment, and bunged-up-ness. Silly old hay fever. I am also full of good intentions not to hit the snooze button on my alarm clock any more.

We shall see that turns out.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Fifth

Doppelganger shreddies and strawberries. 

I have a great deal of sand in my shoes and in my pants. I went to the beach this afternoon with friends and we barbecued sausages and toasted marshmallows and did headstands that went awry (which is when a lot of the sand found its way into my pants).

This is why Edinburgh is just so much better than London; because if you jump in a car in central Edinburgh and drive for an hour you end up at a beautiful beach in East Lothian. If you jump in car in central London and drive for an hour you end up two miles away from where you started with a serious case of road rage and, no doubt, a ticket from accidentally having entered the bus lane...

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Fourth

Peanutbutter & banana smoothie.

Yesterday I got an error page on the BBC website (some momentous piece of news, I forget what already, had overloaded the servers) and this was the image on the page:

Is this not the most sinister thing you've ever seen in your life? I can't say I've ever been a particular fan of clowns, especially not since seeing "It," and the flames in the background add extra menace.

Oddly, it's a malevolent updating of the screen the Beeb used post in the mornings before broadcasting started. It had a little girl seated at a blackboard playing noughts and crosses, and there was a clown in the photo too, if memory serves...

Back in the days when I would rise at dawn, I can remember racing downstairs in the hope of watching some cartoons, and finding the girl and her chalkboard instead. I used to stare at it intently, convinced that if I watched for long enough she would move. She never did.

Gosh, I've just googled it. It's the same clown! And he's called Bubbles. There is a very slim possibility of my not having nightmares tonight.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Third

Doppelganger shreddies and strawberries.

Sometimes the only sensible course of action is to curl up in front of Pride and Prejudice (the Beeb version of course, not that Keira Knightley travesty).  I honestly think that if a man in a tailcoat, britches and long boots rode up on some steed and told me how much he ardently admired and loved me, I'd run off with him in an instant.

I have only this to add: shelves in the closet -- happy thought indeed.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Second

Strawberry, blueberry and banana smoothie. 

I have now proved, once and for all, that I have no self control, and never will. Last night I bought two packets of Haribo, promising myself that I would only eat a few at a time, as a treat. There is now a half packet of yellow and orange ones left (my least favourites). No doubt I shall devour these imminently.

I cannot keep tasty things in the house. The only way that I can avoid a future that involves my being crane-lifted out of my house is if I don't buy biscuits or sweets or crisps in the first place. It's simply not possible to have a few. I must eat them all.

I blame my parents. They controlled sugar so strictly that I am now hardwired to eat all that I can get my hands on: time was that you didn't know when you might see it again, so it made sense to stock up.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-First

Peanutbutter and banana smoothie.

I went for swim this evening. Always pleasant, until it dawns on you that you are effectively sharing a bath with thirty other people. It would be nice to have a waterproof iPod too. It does get rather dull swimming back and forth thinking about what you're going to have for supper.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twentieth

Strawberry and blueberry smoothie. And tea, of course.

People are so peculiar. As I was dashing out this evening I realised I'd forgotten to collect my recycling box and compost box from outside. I was running late (and wielding a cello), so I popped them inside the main door of our building to carry upstairs when I got back, as I didn't want some drunk student running off with them before I got home.

When I returned, I found they'd been dumped outside on the pavement again, and the ribbon that I keep tied around the compost box (so I know which one is mine) was gone. Now, if we had some tremendously smart stairwell, I might understand; but we don't. Our stairwell is luminous yellow, littered with bicycles, carpeted with some grotty, blue, polyester crap and almost invariably smells like curry. My boxes were by no means an assault on the aesthetics of the space. It's spacious too, so it's not like they were in anyone's way (especially given that I specifically tucked them away where people wouldn't trip over them).

I just can't imagine what kind of person would be so annoyed by a couple of recycling boxes (particularly when they've never been left there before) as to actually go to the effort of booting them outside again -- some joyless curmudgeon looking for things to get cross about I suppose... But plastic boxes, really? I can't even imagine being moderately miffed by a couple of stray boxes.

What does miff me though, is my missing ribbon.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Nineteenth

Boiled eggs and toast (one slice with marmite).

I forgot to take my eggs out of the pan after silencing the timer, so they weren't everything they could have been... but they were still pretty tasty.

This evening I finally opened the welcome pack I was sent by my Mother's smart, hippyish dentist. I'm trying him out because most dentists terrify me (the result of the ministrations of the awful dentist I used to see at home). Having opened it, I sincerely hope that I require nothing done. The list of prices makes quite clear that I'm going to need to sell a kidney to have even a few fillings.

I'm still holding out for the day when they can regrow our teeth (seeing as most of mine are in fact amalgam). They managed it in mice a few years ago...

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Eighteenth

Banana, quaffed on the run.

It is raining and I have spaniel hair and a purple tongue from too much red wine. Today, I went to the Botanics with the lovely Miss Shelley, who brought bubbles! Bubbles are glorious. Also, I'd never noticed before that bubbles of different sizes are different colours: the big ones tend to be yellow, and the really tiny ones are blue. Later we played scrabble, and I won, despite the fact that a paucity of letters -- and a childish sense of humour -- forced me to play the word "poo."

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and Seventeenth

Doppelganger shreddies & banana and few of bits of left-over Mars bar sauce....

Honesty compels me to include the Mars bar sauce I made for pudding the night before in the above picture: I had a good few licks of the spoon while the kettle was boiling. I must also confess that I had Mars bar sauce and ice-cream for lunch... And I may have spent the evening curled up on the sofa watching a dreadful film simply because Patick Dempsey was in it... I may also have binged on a banana and peanutbutter milkshake...

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Sixteenth

Strawberry and banana smoothie.

It seems that my computer is a girl. This is not a realisation I arrived at consciously: rather, my computer was giving me the spinning pizza of doom and I huffed "hurry up, stop being a bitch," as opposed to bastard or twat. (Isn't it odd that twat refers to female anatomy and is despite this a pejorative leveled only at men.)

Before you judge me, I should add that although my computer must bear a certain amount of verbal abuse, it tends to be of the exasperated under-the-breath mutterings kind. I have nothing on this kid, who my friend Sandy told me about as I related a recent computer woes-related outburst:

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fifteenth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

Just a quick post this evening as I have lots to do tomorrow morning: namely, going for a long overdue run; buying some more yoghurt (turns out the stuff I've been eating is a month out of date); and voting. I encourage you all to give your second vote to the Greens.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fourteenth

Honey Nut Cornflakes and banana.

The Apprentice is back! I know it's wrong, but oh how I love it. Though not quite so much now that Margaret Mountford and her amazing eyebrows are gone.

Yay, twelve whole episodes of inexplicably cocky people behaving like utter plonkers.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Thirteenth

Almond croissant and white hot chocolate (the cappuccino belongs
to Miss Ferguson who is a  proper coffee-drinking grown-up, unlike me).

I broke my cello bow today. Woopsy daisy. Not sure quite what happened. I'd just tightened it (not that tight) and the end snapped. Oh well. Perhaps it's a sort of right of passage. Maybe bow breaking is the first step towards becoming a virtuoso. A girl can hope.

Another thing a girl can hope for is that hippies start wearing deodorant. I don't care about heavy metals and masking one's pheromones, I care that your body odour is assaulting my nostrils. So, just tack it on to the long list of things that give you cancer, and take the risk that you may miss out on finding the love of your life because they were unable to detect your particular musk over the smell of Dove Original. 

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twelth

Doughnut and smoothie.

Today I have basked in the sunshine with friends, and built bookshelves with my Maman. I'm entirely full of beans because the sun has been shining. Thank you weather gods.

I'm also bean-full because this is the fourth night in a row that I've headed to bed without setting my alarm. All hail the four-day weekend. What an oddity it is that we have all agreed to spend many more hours of our lives at work than at play. Imagine if the whole world went on strike and insisted that all weekends lasted four days...