Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Seventh

Sugary jammy dodger tpye thingy.

Second breakfast: Fruit and Fibre and orange juice.

Just watched a shark film. I don't know why. I am already awash in fears: heights, snakes, high speeds, what might be underneath my bed. Just last night, I had a nightmare about a snake. And now I have added more fear fodder to my consciousness. You would think I would learn...

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Sixth

Fruit and Fibre.

It occurred to me, whilst walking the dog in the dark this evening, that the torch I was using has been in use for as long as I can remember. That thing has been going since at least the mid-1980s. It's a big red number, called a Pifco I think. If you need a durable torch, I seriously recommend buying one of these.

When I was little, our Labrador Boo-Boo was always very insistent that she should carry it whenever we were out with her; so, for the first ten years of my life, I was used to negotiating the dark by torch-light that fell at a right angle to the direction in which we were headed.

Harry is too small to carry the torch; but that's no trouble, he has his own disco light -- a flashing blue and red LED light. According to the packet it's visible from up to one mile away.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fifth

Home-made bread (toasted) with apricot jam and a pear

There were two slices of the above, but I devoured the first whilst waiting for the kettle to boil.  I proudly showed off my loaf to both my parents over skype. Apparently my need for parental validation has not improved much since the days of coming home from school waving some highly abstract potato-print offering. (Do you suppose schools are still doing that to Maris Pipers, and parents?)

In other news, the tumble drier man came last week, so naturally I have already shrunk one pair of (already slightly too small trousers).

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fourth

Fruit and Fibre.

Harry (the dog) and I went walking and met a seal.  You can just see the top of his head in the photograph below:

There was a fresh dusting of snow and at no point during our one-and-a-half hour or so jaunt did I feel my toes. It was a lovely walk though.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Third

Fruit and Fibre.

I know the X Factor is odious, and they're endlessly thrusting largely talentless reprobates with ever-sillier hair on us, but I'm not sure the riots can really be their fault, can they?

"X Factor culture fuelled the UK riots, says Iain Duncan Smith"

Acually, while we're on the subject of the X Factor, I should just like to place myself in the "David Attenborough's rendition of What a Wonderful World for Christmas No. 1" camp... (This motion seems to have been doing the rounds on Facebook.)

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-Second

Banana bread and apple puree again.

Well, we survived Hurricane Bawbag largely unscathed here. Had to put a rock on the lid of the compost bin and a bird feeder blew off its peg. Other than that, all is well. It was wild though. I'm amazed no trees have come down. Perhaps I'll find one yet. I hope not though. I don't like it when my favourite trees come down.

I still haven't entirely got over the loss of the Scots Pine that hosted our twig swing. That was a great swing, right out over a steep bank. When my sister and I were little, if we didn't maintain our momentum, we'd get stuck hanging out over the abyss (it felt abyss-like to a small person). Then we had two choices -- jump from a height into the brambles, or hope the other would fetch a parent...

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirty-First

Banana bread and apple puree.

I must say, all this breakfast numbering business is getting to be tedious. Pretty soon I'm going to exceed my numerical range. I think I may have to resort to a new titling system soon. Perhaps at the end of a year, which is coming around startlingly fast.

I'm entirely depressed after watching the last episode of Frozen Planet. And not just because I'll miss my weekly David Attenborough dates. The satellite images of the rate at which the ice caps are melting were just staggering. It's also deeply disturbing to think about the many countries clamouring to secure their claim on the Arctic while they wait for the ice to melt enough to permit the extraction of oil and gas. I think I ought to rig myself up to a giant hamster wheel and generate my own energy from now on.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Thirtieth

Fruit & Fibre and Apple Puree

I didn't eat all the puree, I promise. It doesn't look too tasty because I forgot to put lemon juice in to stop the apples turning brown, but it is quite yummy really and has no added sugar, so it comes with added smug (rather like a Prius/Pious.)

The temperature seems to be rising. This I know from the occasional thunderous cascades of snow sliding off the roof and scaring the living daylights out of the dog. Mind you, my dog isn't hard to scare. He doesn't even like the dark. I have to turn the lights on before I can coax him from one room into another.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Twenty-Ninth

Poached egg on toast.

I'm becoming quite the little fire starter up here near the Arctic Circle (well, we're 6 degrees of latitude off, but still).  Naturally I find it difficult to start any kind of fire without singing the Prodigy song. I say singing, but I really only know the first few lines. And I'm not sure that I'm at all twisted at all. Cold, yes. But not twisted. I don't suppose that lighting a fire in the grate where it ought to be constitutes "twisted fire starting"; but none-the-less, the song has lodged itself in my head like all the best earworms, and I can only shift it with a rendition of Build Me Up Buttercup -- the ultimate earworm-busting song.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Twenty-Eighth

Boiled eggs and soldiers.

It's inevitable really: at some point you are going to eat the coconut Quality Streets.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seventh

Oats & honey Special K and Fruit & Fibre.

The Irn Bru Christmas advert is back. Hurrah! How I love it. A fitting homage. I'm sure Raymond Briggs must like it.

Breakfasts Three-Hundred-and-Nineteen-to-Twenty-Six

No. 319: Two apples (nothing else to eat that morning); No. 320: Porridge;
No 321: Porridge again (same photo as I forgot to take one); No.322: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

No. 323: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; No. 324: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes;
No. 325: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; No. 326: Scrambled eggs on toast.

Oof, it's been a while. A week in fact, no, more -- eight days. Eight days in which I have become a self-employed person, attended a birthday party, virtually melted my skin off with mould-busting bleach stuff, and knackerd my hip shifting boxes. (My poor hip. I'd feel old, but actually this has been a problem since I was a teenager -- heavy lifting makes for two-to-four days of lameness.)

I am now ensconced at home, where the ambient temperature in my bedroom last night was a balmy 7.5ºC. I think I need thermal pyjamas. And an additional hot water bottle. Today I have been nearly drowned twice.  Once walking to and from the coral beach (horizontal driving rain, you are not my friend). And once streaking from the car to the co-op, a distance of no more than 30 metres: enough to entirely saturate my clothes, and fill my right ear with water. I'm toasting myself by the fire now though, so all is well.