Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Ninety-One-to-Four

No. 291: The kind of cereal I was never allowed when I was little; No. 292: Boiled Eggs in the amazing egg cup and soldiers; No. 293: Croissant and honey; No. 294: Forbidden cereal and blueberry wheats.

How's this for an eyebrow-raising blurb?

What's the most indulgent thing you've done for your pet – and does it beat buying it a pair of prosthetic testicles?

Strangely, three cat photos have graced the Guardian homepage today (as far as I have seen): the one accompanying this article, another illustrating an article on "how the recession is hurting our pets," and a mugshot of Beauty, the cat stolen -- Fatal Attraction-style -- from an MP's lover by his peeved wife...

Not sure what to make of this surfeit of feline stories.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Nintieth

Oaty, nutty smug healthy cereal from Real Foods.

Waking up to a still-warm hot water bottle is a pretty clear indication that you have not been asleep for long enough. Lately I've been yawning by on between five-and-a-half to six hours sleep most nights.

I've never been fantastic at going to bed at a sensible hour; it's often at 11 o'clock that I suddenly become efficient: writing letters, doing laundry, practising my cello (pizzicato so as not to enrage the neighbours).

It is not efficiency that's been keeping me up lately though. It is working for Satan. I think it's because going to sleep brings the next -- working -- day hurtling towards you. If you delay sleep, in a funny way, you delay work.

Tomorrow though is the day that I give Satan my notice. I'm rather looking forward to switching out the light tonight.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-Ninth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with damson jam, and a couple of plums.

If you can, you must watch the BBC's Frozen Planet. It is utterly, utterly captivating. Here's a little taster:



How I love David Attenborough. And penguins.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-Eighth

Butterscotch pie and plums.

This evening, I walked past a man who looked remarkably like Wayne Rooney. I'm more than a little disquieted that I should be able to identify a man who looks like Wayne Rooney. That's the awful thing about c'lebs: somehow people you have absolutely no interest in knowing anything about sneak into your consciousness.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-Seventh

Butterscotch pie (I know!).

Edinburgh has acquired its own Occupy movement. I first spotted them last week. I was sitting on the bus and I noticed a jolly-looking makeshift campsite in St Andrews square. There was a nicely lit-up tent and it all looked very civilised.

You can imagine my surprise then when I walked through St Andrews square on Saturday, as a ludicrous number of police milled about "keeping an eye" ( I presume) on a ragtag collection of entirely amiable, slightly dishevelled-looking people.

What is wrong with this country that we get completely hysterical about a collection of somewhat smelly campers pitching up in public parks to protest (entirely peacefully) against a system which props up the wealthiest one percent, whilst snatching much-needed services away from everyone else.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-Sixth

Toast and tea.

I did not eat the soft toy. It belongs to my delicious goddaughter (whom I also did not eat).

I'm half-watching Troy instead of going to bed as I ought. I'd forgotten how entirely preposterous it is. Though, on the plus side, I've seen quite a lot of Brad Pitt's bottom.

Breakasts Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-Four-and-Five

No. 284: Fruit and Fibre.

No. 285: Hog roast, cheese burger and hot chocolate.

Last night a friend told me about this wonderful C.S. Lewis quotation: "He that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it hath already committed breakfast with it in his heart."

Well, I certainly committed breakfast in my heart this morning. Though not with ham and eggs, but with - as you see -- hog roast, and a beef burger, and hot chocolate at the Farmers' Market.

It wasn't just me either. The lovely Miss Ferguson committed breakfast too. So it must alright.

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and Eighty-Two and Three

No 272: Cinnamon and raisin bagel and a banana (munched at work).

No 273: Yoghurt and banana.

Dear lady at the bus station yesterday who went to the loo with three minutes to spare,

I did tell the bus driver you were coming. He was unmoved because it was "after departure time." I did think it was more than a little mean that he didn't wait, or indeed stop when you came running out, waving your arms. Please don't hate me too. I tried. I promise. I'm just not built for that kind of responsibility at 8.00 in the morning.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighty-First

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with damson jam and grapes.

Now, I like a good spy yarn as much as the next person, but can we really, truly say that assisting the Lib Dem MP for Portsmouth constitutes spying "from the heart of British democracy in parliament"...

And also, why on earth is everyone convinced the Russians are spying left, right and centre again? Is this some sort of cold war nostalgia?  I'm just not sure that Britain is important enough to bother spying on any more. We are after all a tiny, entirely broke nation governed by a collection of chinless wonder trustafarians.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eightieth

Fruit and Fibre (again).

It is funny how indignant drunk people are. This evening on the bus a well-oiled woman staggered into me -- or rather the cello I was carrying on my back -- and then ranted "Do you mind? Watch where you're going with that guitar." I had in fact been standing quite still, contemplating whether to sit at the front or the back.

I opted for the back en fin, where I very nearly took off a man's nose taking the cello off my back. Naturally, I was very apologetic.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-Ninth

Fruit and Fibre.

Today,  I have mostly been eating delicious things. I'd list them all, but it's nearly bedtime and I don't want to make myself hungry. I've noticed that going to bed peckish makes for even more peculiar than normal dreams.

Other than that, I can only report that I smell a little bit like a gift shop today. I used lavender shower gel this morning. And all day long I've been catching whiffs of a smell one tends only to encounter in shops filled with broderie anglaise. (Not to be confused with creme anglaise, which is delicious -- though I suppose broderie anglaise is delicious in its way too.)

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-Seven-and-Eight

No 277: Breakfast of champions (people who set their alarms too late) -- the Tracker bar.

No: 278 Part I: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and a strawberry & banana smoothie.

No 278 Part II: Boiled eggs and soldiers.

There really is nothing like a costume drama binge to fill you with the false hope of some romantic-hero-shaped chap sweeping you off your feet. I've just watched the wonderful North and South for the first time, reaffirming my love for both Richard Armitage (so much better than the gent before him on Spooks who got exploded) and Brendan Coyle.

Where are the real world versions of these characters? That's what I want to know. Mr Thornton went all the way to Helstone to pick a rose to remember Margaret by. The best most girls nowadays can hope for is some half-hearted Facebook stalking.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-Sixth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with damson jam.

I had a lovely evening tonight seeing Para Handy with my Papa. (I also had paneer for supper, but perhaps this is an alliterative step too far.) Go and see it if you can.

For a girl who grew up on The Highland Voyage, this was a real treat.

I really must read the books sometime.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-Fifth

Tracker bar and a banana.

I thought it was tremendously clever of me buying a thermos mug so that I can sip my tea at leisure on my morning bus-ride. It's a pity then, that I wasn't savvy enough not to severely burn my tongue drinking said tea.

Matters were further compounded by my having elected -- pre-scalding -- to bring soup for lunch. Never mind. This evening I used my injury as an excuse to justify eating an entire packet of Butterscotch Angel Delight (the coldness of it was sort of soothing...).

In other news, I have befriended the man who drives the bus I get home most evenings. Every time I remind him what it is I currently do for a living (he first guessed teacher) he roars with laughter. And advises that I should do something else pronto. He is quite right of course.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-Fourth

Fruit & Fibre.

Every time I take a slurp from my water bottle at work, I am reminded of this glorious hydration one-upmanship sketch. Bring back Smack the Pony, that's what I say. (And also, Down With Work -- but that's a subject for another day.)

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Seventy-to-Seventy-Three

No. 270: Toast with damson jam; No. 271: French toast, bacon, maple syrup and rasberries;
No. 272: French toast, bacon and maple syrup; No. 273: Cinnamon & raisin bagel and damson jam.

I played Pictionary for the first time this evening. What a revelation.

Below is my game-clinching doodle. I confess I'm no draftswoman, but I was rather pleased with this. The word was "frisk". I drew the aeroplane and rectangle/terminal first to set the scene; otherwise this would just have been one stick person groping another. And though groping is an action, I'm pretty sure that molestation is likely not part of the Pictionary canon.

The other team scored a deserved triumph with "fuzzy" -- illustrated by first drawing a fuzzy peach, and then a fuzzy bottom.

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Sixty-Three-to-Nine

No. 263: Blueberry wheats and raspberries; No. 264 Extremely decadent muesli &raspberries;
No. 265: Croissant and jam; No. 266: Tracker Bars.

No. 267: Blueberry wheats; No. 268: Blueberry wheats again; No 269: Pumkin Pie.

Oh dear. Too many late nights have made a terrible daily blogger out of me. (They are also to blame for Breakfast no 266 -- I got home late Sunday and woke-up to off milk, not before dowsing a bowl of cereal with it though...)

I had a splendid weekend feting a friend's 30th and goCarSharing my way there with Miss M-L who, it turns out, shares my fondness for singing along to Bond theme tunes in the car.

We shared the driving, and she mocked me relentlessly for my inability to join a motorway, or go around a roundabout without first turning the music down.