Breakfasts One-Hundred-and-Sixty-Six, Seven and Eight

Doppelganger shreddies & strawberries x 2 and cinnamon & raisin bagels with apricot jam and orange juice x 2

Oh dear, I've been rather a hopeless blogger this week. My stinky cold has turned me into a narcoleptic.

I'm almost all recovered now (though still sound ever-so-slightly like Marge Simpson).

This evening I saw almost all of the parts of "Ghost" that I haven't seen before. (It's seems to be one of those films that's always just ending, or half way through, whenever I encounter it).

Susie the architect and I watched (most of it) together and fell about laughing during the advert break when the title card popped up and she said "good font," and I said "I was just about to say the very same thing." I suppose we must be font fiends or something.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Third

Doppelganger shreddies and strawberries.

Sometimes the only sensible course of action is to curl up in front of Pride and Prejudice (the Beeb version of course, not that Keira Knightley travesty).  I honestly think that if a man in a tailcoat, britches and long boots rode up on some steed and told me how much he ardently admired and loved me, I'd run off with him in an instant.

I have only this to add: shelves in the closet -- happy thought indeed.

Breakfast the Tenth

Toast with pear and apple spread.

After a false start at one cinema, I saw the King's Speech this evening. Loved it. Top hole. And Colin Firth... Oh Mr Firth, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I wonder though, have I reached the moment where my love comes dangerously close to constituting an Electra complex? I swore off George Clooney recently after my father remarked that he and Mr Clooney were about the same age. (I don't recall if I was tactful enough to refrain from saying 'yes, but he's rather better preserved.')