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.