Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Sixty-Second

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with damson jam.

I think it's a very great shame that Charlie Cox is not my boyfriend and that I don't live in Stormhold. I'm also rather sad that I'm not a star and I don't have glossy, glowy star hair.

I was slightly worried that my fancying Charlie Cox was somewhat pervy, but it's ok -- it seems we are almost exactly the same age. (Though, given that Stardust came out about three years ago, I suppose technically I am quite a few years older than Mr Cox in his Tristan Thorn guise -- oh well).

So Mr Cox, if you are inexplicably reading the blog of a complete stranger who eats a lot of cereal, and don't mind a non glossy-haired girl, let's have a drink sometime.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Sixty-First

More of the cereal with a silly name, and a pear.

Donald Trump has called plans for an off-shore wind farm in Aberdeenshire "disastrous and environmentally irresponsible." Yes, that's right. The same Donald Trump who is bulldozing a Site of Special Scientific Interest to accommodate a bloody great golf course. A bloody great golf course which overlooks the proposed wind farm site...

Apparently Trump stated: "Unfortunately, instead of celebrating the start of something valuable and beautiful for Scotland, this ugly cloud is hanging over the future of the great Scottish coastline." The great Scottish coastline that he is busy despoiling.

Why won't that man and his ridiculous comb-over bugger off and never come back? I sincerely hope that his golf-course is a resounding failure.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Sixtieth

Cereal with a preposterous sort of name implying it is some way good for you, and a pear.

It was Google's Birthday today - 13th I think. And how could one not wish many happy returns to the people who give you a picture of a broken robot when a link is dead:

What is it about robots that's so inordinately pleasing? (Except obviously the ones that go "wrong" and start wiping out people...). Also -- and I realise this is something of a non sequitur -- what is is with the word "meta"? It's everywhere at the moment. I'm rapidly getting tired of it. (Partly because I can't really work out what anyone means when they use it.)

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Ninth

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with home-made (not by me) damson jam.

It bodes ill when the woman behind the till in Tescos tells you you look tired.

Still, it could be worse.  A nice friend told me this evening that a Clinique counter lady once asked her if she "worked the land"...

Time for some beauty sleep I think.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Eighth

French toast & bacon.

Is there anything lovelier than Sunday brunch? The sun finally shone today and after a leisurely brunch, a friend and I walked along the Water of Leith to the Dean Gallery, enjoying autumnal Edinburgh.

In other BIG news, it turns out that Prince William forgot to take the handbrake off the Aston Martin on the royal wedding day. Crumbs.

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Six-and-Seven

No 256: Pumkin pie and a pear.

No. 157: Courgette quiche/tart.

Still no rolling pin, but today I made a courgette quiche/tarty thing with Parmesan pastry -- which as you can see, I ate for breakfast/lunch. I'm getting good use out of that old Cote du Rhone bottle.

Other than that I have mostly consumed an eye-popping quantity of cinnamon oaties. And watched the creatures on Sesame Street spoofing glee.

One of the favourite things I learned in the course of my old job (pre Satan -- oh how I miss it!) is that the BBC declined to buy the rights to Sesame Street in 1971 because of its 'authoritarian aims'.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Fifth

Pumpkin pie (told you)

I am locked in a seemingly never-ending battle against crumbs at the moment. This is because I live with a lovely chap (in all other respects) who comes home late at night and -- I can only assume --plants a small IED inside a cereal packet, places this in the middle of the sitting room, and stands back to watch Crunchy Nut Cornflake confetti cover everything in sight.

I am 99.9999999999% sure that he doesn't read this blog, otherwise I shouldn't post this, as I'm pretty sure this is absolutely the most passive-aggressive way of informing a flatmate of a gripe. If not, I can only apologise and invite you to exact some revenge by leaving a petty note about something I do... (My money is on leaving soap scum in the bathroom: I have a high tolerance for such things).

Still, it could be worse, I once lived with someone who insisted on hiding anything useful (like salt and pepper) in the cupboards, but left a trail of breadcrums, jam splodges, dirty wooden spoons etc in his wake.  I will never understand how he could have the impulse to tidy teabags away in a cupboard (not helpful at all as they're much more useful by the kettle) but be completely unmoved by the sight of a crumb-covered kitchen table.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Fourth

Blueberry wheats and a pear.

Tonight was my third night under house arrest (necessitated by illness) and I must say it's getting old.  I cheered myself up by cooking a pumpkin pie -- the only thing I felt like eating. I shan't include a photograph now as there's every chance that I'll eat some for breakfast tomorrow morning. And now, I must off to bed, before I turn into a pumpkin.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Third

Banana, and tea from my thermos (which tasted slightly of tomato soup...).

To my great shame, I've been watching Titanic this evening. I remember my sister and I dragging my poor parents to an absolutely packed showing at a cinema teaming with teenage girls, and the occasional reluctant boyfriend.

It's utterly preposterous anyway, but very difficult to watch with a straight face if you've ever seen the wondrous French and Saunders parody.  Every time the de, de, de, de dum, de dedum, de de dum music comes on I can't help but here Dawn French singing "Go Ooooooon."

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-to-Fifty-Two

No 250: Muesli.

No 251: Full breakfast (I didn't eat them both).

No 252: Banana (munched on bus).

Oh dear, a tardy blogger once more. And I had such good intentions. I'm full of lurgy, but alas working for Satan means that I must go to work. Or not get paid. Instead I shall infect everyone there with my disease. I think they call this presenteeism. More fool them, that's all I can say.

Of course, I've been rather cheered up by the start of Downton Abbey. Huzzah and hurrah for costume dramas.  Oh, and also, for dried mango, that too is very cheering.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Ninth

Brown roll with peanutbutter and jam.

I committed sins against polar bears today and flew to London. (I will plant some trees in repentance).

I must say, it is a novelty flying with someone other than Squeazy Jet. We arrived 15 minutes early. And were fed and watered on board.

I had a lovely time cloud gazing.  Sometimes I find it impossible to believe that you couldn't just walk around on top of them. They look so inviting. I imagine you'd sink through the first layer, up to just below your knees, and you'd kick up whisps as you went on your way...

No doubt this obsession can be traced to my childhood duvets covers, which featured elephants and hippopotami reclining on fluffy clouds.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Eighth

Brown roll with peanutbutter & jam and a banana.

I saw 'A Lonely Place to Die' last night -- which was altogether too thrilling for me (but then the end of Toy Story 3 had me squirming in suspense, so I may not be the best judge of such things). You must however, all go and see it -- nervy or not -- because the wonderful Miss Sophie Ramsay is singing in the beginning and end credits. You must also stay until the end and whoop loudly when you see her name.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Seventh

Special K and banana.

I wonder if the lollipop man on my way to work realises that I'm 28-years-old. I don't mind being escorted across -- it's quite handy really -- but I can't help feeling he ought to be using his car stopping powers on more worthy candidates...

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Sixth

Special K and banana.

Those damn whistling dwarfs have a lot to answer for. Whistling while you work may cheer you up, but it's almost guaranteed to drive your colleagues bananas. Particularly if you whistle off key.

Another thing likely to send colleagues over the edge is sending emails talking about "raising paperwork": you raise chickens, rents, villages, roofs even -- but not paperwork.

I long more and more for return to the days of working from home -- receiving emails exclusively from people say what they mean instead of spewing out jargon. I actually had to google a term someone emailed today to work out what the blazes they were on about....

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth

Banana and a blueberry muffin (gobbled on bus).

Edinburgh is something of a graveyard of umbrellas this evening; Hurricane Katia's tendrils have twisted more than a few beyond usefulness. The trees too, seem rather bothered by all this wind. Some ominous creaking and such persuaded me to give most a wide berth. The same is true of scaffolding. But then I've always done my best to avoid that ever since I listened to a Dick Francis book tape in which a falling pole was the murderers' instrument of death...

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Six to Forty-Four

You may have noticed an absence of breakfasts posts recently. Fear not, I have merely been on holiday, rather than forgoing "the most important meal of the day" (pictures to follow when I have the energy to wrangle with photoshop).

In keeping with current fashions, I've been staycationing -- in the Hebrides. I borrowed my Mater's car, dognapped my hound from my Pater and braved the ferry in order to visit the Uists, Harris and Lewis with my friend Miss Brown. We returned to Skye with a car full of sand, a dog full of sausages and cameras loaded with pictures of all the wonderful scenes we saw. I cannot recommend a Hebridean jaunt enough.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fifth

Special K & rasberries.

I wish I hadn't allowed myself to be sucked into Atonement. It's so heart-breakingly sad, and yet I can't seem to look away. It doesn't help that the soundtrack is so good. Damn you Dario Marianelli.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fourth

Vanilla yoghurt with blueberries and raspberries.

If you're in need of cheering, I can emphatically recommend going to bed with wet hair. I woke up looking gloriously leonine this morning. Until supper time, it was the high point of the day. And that's quite something for me -- I seldom start the day on a good note. It's the trauma of being torn prematurely from the feathery embrace of my bed. Oh to never set an alarm again...