Happy Endings for Hosiery

Scrambled eggs and spicy tomatoey deliciousness.

Peanutbutter, honey and banana on toast.

It is a rare load of laundry for me in which only pairs of socks emerge at the other end.  And yet, today I have achieved just that: a rummage of contentedly coupled hose (rummage seems to me to be the aptest collective noun for socks that I can think of). So, my contribution to the pantheon of writings about lost socks is an usual, happy tale of halves and their wholes. That's nice. For the socks.

Digital Immigrants

Muesli, banana, and a dollop of honey.

So, we are digital immigrants, those of us born prior to 1985: our childhood's were blissfully unconnected. As teenagers we fought over the use of the landline -- sitting hot-eared in hallways gassing on the home phone as parents and siblings ducked, finger-waggingly, disapprovingly, into sight to chastise us for racking up the bill and monopolising the only means of connection to the outside world. It was a simpler time. And I miss it sometimes (she says on a blog post. Oh the irony.)

Breakfasts Three-Hundred-and-Six-and-Seven

Bread, butter and honey.

French toast and bacon.

I wonder whether I haven't been a little remiss in not considering thievery as a money-making option. That's not to say I have a particular talent for it: other than some childhood raids on stores of sugary foodstuffs, my cat burglar potential has gone largely untested. However, what I do know is that I do not look like a thief. I regularly set off shop alarms (I am at a loss as to explain why) and yet no one ever suspects that the alarm going off is anything other than a fluke. I simply have to shrug my shoulders and move to open my bag before I am waved on by a security guard. Maybe it's the hair. Perhaps curly-haired girls don't look like larcenists.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Third

Banana and oats & honey crunchy thingy.

I munched this morning's breakfast on the hoof. And jolly tasty it was too. I got braces today (teeth, not trousers) so in 18 months, I shall have a dazzlingly perfect smile. Until that time, I will be mainly eating soft foods. And talking with a lisp.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Forty-Third

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with honey and banana.

Whatever happened to benefactors, that's what I want to know. I'm in need of a new job any day now (alas), and astonishingly have not won the lottery (despite having bought a ticket and everything), so now would be an excellent time to acquire a patron of sorts.

I think it's important that any benefactor be anonymous: that way I might feel less guilty about spending their endowment on decadent sandwiches and yoghurt covered banana chips, in addition to important things like rent and marmite.

Also, my hazy recollections of Great Expectations -- it's been roughly a decade and a half since I read it --  suggest that knowing (or indeed suspecting) the identity of your benefactor only leads to trouble.

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 Seventieth

Toast & honey.

Actually only managed two bites of this particular breakfast... I've succumbed to a yucky vomiting bug.  Given that tales of upchucking do not make good reading, I shall leave it there.

Breakfast the Forty-Sixth

Soda bread with even more lashings of honey & butter and mango & passionfruit smoothie.

Oh cruel fate. This evening I fancied a peanutbutter and banana milkshake. Mouth watering in anticipation, I prised open the Mackies ice cream tub only to discover that it contained something green -- frozen spinach soup I think... Because laziness trumps even my sweet tooth, I have gone without. So, a good evening for my waistline I suppose, but rather bad luck on my appetite for sugary, fatty things.

Breakfast the Forty-Fifth

Soda bread with lashings of butter & honey, and mango & passionfruit smoothie.

I am ludicrously stiff this evening. It's because I'm such an insufferable teacher's pet. Last night was yoga night again and my instuctor said "very nice" to one of my poses. I am a terrible praise junkie, so I always want more. In my desperate pursuit of another yogic gold star I think I pulled just about every muscle in my body.

I would have hoped that by aged 28 I had outgrown the need for praise from teacher types. Alas, the truth is, I can be sustained for weeks on the morsels of mild affirmation thrown my way by persons in instructive positions.