No Breakfast

Winnie the Pooh sniffing out some condensed milk.

I didn't get around to breakfast this morning, which is most unusual for me. Perhaps I ought to have photographed my lunch, but I'd entirely gobbled it up by the time the thought crossed my mind.

Not to worry though, I've more than made up for any calorific losses in the morning by indulging my passion for condensed milk. Not an entire tin (for once), but a sufficiency shall we say.

Breakfast the Sixty-Fifth

Oaty cluster thingys with yoghurt and blueberries.

I'd entirely forgotten, until today, that Winnie-the-Pooh, is also a great lover of condensed milk:

When rabbit said "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both," and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "but don't bother about the bread, please."

I think this particular binge may have been the one that led to Pooh getting stuck in Rabbit's doorway (burrow-way?).  I suppose the human equivalent to this would be not fitting into an aeroplane seat, or having to be crane-lifted out of of your house.

Perhaps I ought to rein in my condensed milk consumption before my metabolism catches up with me and I go the way of Pooh...

Breakfast the Thirty-Eighth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with raspberry jam & some cherries.

This evening a friend gave me a cello lesson. Incredibly, I wasn't completely hopeless. This definitely bucks a trend: I've rarely found myself to be any good at the things I'd like to be good at, such as the cello. Instead I have an array of bizarre, or frankly just pedestrian, aptitudes.

To wit: I'm actually pretty good at parking -- but have no car. I can eat an entire can of condensed milk in one sitting with no ill effects. I'm rather good at the hurdles -- actual ones, metaphorical ones trip me up every time. I can navigate quite proficiently so long as I am allowed to turn the map upside down, and I can stick my big toes straight up at right angles to my feet keeping the remaining toes flat on the floor.

I would however like to be good at a few worthwhile and satisfying things, like painting, or dancing, or doing cartwheels. Even being a good knitter would be nice. I can only do scarves; and always have to google how to cast off.  But perhaps the cello could be my as yet undiscovered forte. All I need now is an anonymous benefactor to give me a cello and pay for my lessons. (And while I'm asking for things from anonymous benefactors, a two-bedroom flat in Stockbridge, or around Broughton Street, would be lovely too.)