Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Eighteenth

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, strawberries and peach.

This evening was lovely, and I will tell you why in two words: butterscotch sauce.

Breakfasts Number Two-Hundred-and-Fifteen-and Sixteen

No. 215: Cinnamon & raisin bagel with blueberry jam and a peach.

No. 216: French toast with bacon, sausages and maple syrup (and a hot chocolate!).

I've been having a lot of festival fun this weekend. Six of us somehow managed to gain entry to the book festival launch party on one ticket last night. (This is about us rock and roll as I get -- crashing parties mostly attended by the bespectacled -- and middle-aged -- bourgeoisie).

Then today, I saw Shutterland at Zoo (venue no. 124); I cannot recommend it enough -- so, so brilliant.

Breakfasts One-Hundred-and-Seventy-Seven and-Eight

No 177: Fruit & Fibre and a peach.

No 178: Honey Nut Cornflakes and Strawberries.

It's been rather a hectic week this week, I promise I'll do better after the weekend. (That is if anyone's interested).

Recently I've been seeing a lot of adverts for Quorn. I don't understand Quorn. I can't think of any reason why you'd eat it.

It's an odd sort of a choice if you're vegetarian and looking for something tasty, given that it's bland, and oddly textured. And if your non-meat-eating is down to concerns about farting cows, its no good either I shouldn't think -- I imagine that the carbon footprint of all that processing easily rivals that of a herd of flatulent bovines. And finally, if you're a meat-eater but looking to save on calories (this seems to be the angle they're going for), why wouldn't you just eat some yummy vegetable confection instead?

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fifty-Eighth

Strawberries & peach with yoghurt & museli.

The man has a point.

Though he may count himself lucky not to have to go on hen weekends: twelve druken women all out food-fadding one another whilst wearing ridiculous T-shirts and the requisite silly headgear.

There are always a couple of long-time single girls virtually on the point of suicide by the end of the weekend, or homicide -- depending on the number of smug newly-engaged, rock-flashing women there are in the group. And, of course, there's the endless chorus of complaints about sore feet. (Why can't people bring along flats to change in to, or better still -- wear comfortable footwear the whole time!)