Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Third

Banana, and tea from my thermos (which tasted slightly of tomato soup...).

To my great shame, I've been watching Titanic this evening. I remember my sister and I dragging my poor parents to an absolutely packed showing at a cinema teaming with teenage girls, and the occasional reluctant boyfriend.

It's utterly preposterous anyway, but very difficult to watch with a straight face if you've ever seen the wondrous French and Saunders parody.  Every time the de, de, de, de dum, de dedum, de de dum music comes on I can't help but here Dawn French singing "Go Ooooooon."

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-to-Fifty-Two

No 250: Muesli.

No 251: Full breakfast (I didn't eat them both).

No 252: Banana (munched on bus).

Oh dear, a tardy blogger once more. And I had such good intentions. I'm full of lurgy, but alas working for Satan means that I must go to work. Or not get paid. Instead I shall infect everyone there with my disease. I think they call this presenteeism. More fool them, that's all I can say.

Of course, I've been rather cheered up by the start of Downton Abbey. Huzzah and hurrah for costume dramas.  Oh, and also, for dried mango, that too is very cheering.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Ninth

Brown roll with peanutbutter and jam.

I committed sins against polar bears today and flew to London. (I will plant some trees in repentance).

I must say, it is a novelty flying with someone other than Squeazy Jet. We arrived 15 minutes early. And were fed and watered on board.

I had a lovely time cloud gazing.  Sometimes I find it impossible to believe that you couldn't just walk around on top of them. They look so inviting. I imagine you'd sink through the first layer, up to just below your knees, and you'd kick up whisps as you went on your way...

No doubt this obsession can be traced to my childhood duvets covers, which featured elephants and hippopotami reclining on fluffy clouds.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Eighth

Brown roll with peanutbutter & jam and a banana.

I saw 'A Lonely Place to Die' last night -- which was altogether too thrilling for me (but then the end of Toy Story 3 had me squirming in suspense, so I may not be the best judge of such things). You must however, all go and see it -- nervy or not -- because the wonderful Miss Sophie Ramsay is singing in the beginning and end credits. You must also stay until the end and whoop loudly when you see her name.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Seventh

Special K and banana.

I wonder if the lollipop man on my way to work realises that I'm 28-years-old. I don't mind being escorted across -- it's quite handy really -- but I can't help feeling he ought to be using his car stopping powers on more worthy candidates...

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Sixth

Special K and banana.

Those damn whistling dwarfs have a lot to answer for. Whistling while you work may cheer you up, but it's almost guaranteed to drive your colleagues bananas. Particularly if you whistle off key.

Another thing likely to send colleagues over the edge is sending emails talking about "raising paperwork": you raise chickens, rents, villages, roofs even -- but not paperwork.

I long more and more for return to the days of working from home -- receiving emails exclusively from people say what they mean instead of spewing out jargon. I actually had to google a term someone emailed today to work out what the blazes they were on about....

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Forty-Fifth

Banana and a blueberry muffin (gobbled on bus).

Edinburgh is something of a graveyard of umbrellas this evening; Hurricane Katia's tendrils have twisted more than a few beyond usefulness. The trees too, seem rather bothered by all this wind. Some ominous creaking and such persuaded me to give most a wide berth. The same is true of scaffolding. But then I've always done my best to avoid that ever since I listened to a Dick Francis book tape in which a falling pole was the murderers' instrument of death...

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Six to Forty-Four

You may have noticed an absence of breakfasts posts recently. Fear not, I have merely been on holiday, rather than forgoing "the most important meal of the day" (pictures to follow when I have the energy to wrangle with photoshop).

In keeping with current fashions, I've been staycationing -- in the Hebrides. I borrowed my Mater's car, dognapped my hound from my Pater and braved the ferry in order to visit the Uists, Harris and Lewis with my friend Miss Brown. We returned to Skye with a car full of sand, a dog full of sausages and cameras loaded with pictures of all the wonderful scenes we saw. I cannot recommend a Hebridean jaunt enough.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fifth

Special K & rasberries.

I wish I hadn't allowed myself to be sucked into Atonement. It's so heart-breakingly sad, and yet I can't seem to look away. It doesn't help that the soundtrack is so good. Damn you Dario Marianelli.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Fourth

Vanilla yoghurt with blueberries and raspberries.

If you're in need of cheering, I can emphatically recommend going to bed with wet hair. I woke up looking gloriously leonine this morning. Until supper time, it was the high point of the day. And that's quite something for me -- I seldom start the day on a good note. It's the trauma of being torn prematurely from the feathery embrace of my bed. Oh to never set an alarm again...