International Polar Bear Day

Mon Papa thought I told him it was International Polar Bear Day this evening as a riposte to his complaint that the morning room was cold (it was his way of maligning my stove lighting skills); but it genuinely is International Polar Bear Day. And thanks to the good people at the Grauniad, you too can marvel at these furry, wonderful creatures.

P.S. Apologies for the lack of breakfast picture. I was far too hungry this morning to go upstairs in search of my camera. I had muesli.

I Heart Lichen

I went for a walk today in a most splendid wood teaming with moss and lichen and all nice green spongy things. I had mon Papa there, my hound Harry and a dog called Dan. Dan is 90 or so in dog years, but was never-the-less quite determined that he should go bounding in to the river and bark at the water, as he likes to do. We had to run after him to stop him. (It seemed a bad idea to let him get all wet as he's been unwell of late). Dan is a champ.

Fat Tuesday

I made some rather yummy pancakes this evening and even managed to flip them (not all that skillfully) without dropping any on the floor. Hurrah for me. Naturally I have no intention whatsoever of giving anything up for lent. My only interest in this festival is in the  pancakes. (There's nothing like a convent school education for putting you off organised religion or unorganised for that matter.) If I hadn't been so ravenously hungry, there might have been a photo or two. (Breakfast pic to follow! I had weetabix, in case the suspense is killing you.)

On being irresistible to toothless chain-smokers

Pain au chocolate and an apple, lime and kiwi smoothie.

The universe has a funny way of paying you back. Having bored Miss Ferguson to tears last night about seemingly no-one ever fancying me, I've just spent a three-hour bus journey rebuffing the repeated advances of a drunk, smelly, middle-aged pervert.

Perhaps it's a lesson in not overlooking what you do have. I'd forgotten in my despondency that while it tends to be the case that nice, pleasant-smelling men familiar with the norms of social interaction are largely oblivious to my charms, I am an absolute hit with chain-smoking, toothless creeps.

I suppose one should always try to be thankful for one's particular strengths (however unwanted!). There can't be many women in the world who can say there's not a single boozed-up, bad-breathed, fifty-something multiple-divorcee who can resist them...

Reading List

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I stumbled across this today, The Observer's list of the 100 Greatest Novels of All Time! (My exclamation mark not theirs.) It's a bold claim, and one that I'm ill-place to judge very well given how many of the books I haven't read. I think this year, I'm going to make it my mission to tick a few more off the list.

Jane Eyre a klutz?

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One has to wonder whether Decca Aitkenhead has actually read "Jane Eyre." Given the below I can only assume that it's languishing at the bottom of a Things I Ought to Have Read pile. Or perhaps Ms Aitkenhead tackled it at too tender an age and quite seriously misinterpreted it (a little bit like me and "Les Miserables," which it turns out does not feature dragons).

Part of the problem is that no one can agree on a definition of chick lit. Bridget Jones's Diary is generally cited as an early example, but Allison Pearson hit the roof when her novel about a working mother, "I Don't Know How She Does It," was assigned to the genre. The book's key ingredient – a sassy but klutzy female protagonist, embroiled in comical misadventures – could arguably be found in Jane Eyre, leaving any definition so elastic as to verge on meaningless.

Jane Eyre is many, many things: "sassy but klutzy" is not one of them. Also, Aunt Reed, typhus epidemics and nutso-bananas pyromaniacal first wives hardly constitute "comical misadventures."

Humbugs

Porridge. Yum.

I got another non-chewy humbug this evening. Bah!

Bed Socks

Muesli and blueberries.

This is the current temperature in my bedroom...

... Which is why I have to dress like this for bed...

I know what you're thinking. I don't understand why I'm not married to Matt Damon either.

What is it About Matt Damon?

Honey loops and cornflakes and apple, grape and pomegranate juice.

There's just something completely winning about Matt Damon. I can't put my finger on it at all, but every time I watch him in something I fall a little bit in love with him (with the possible exception of The Talented Mr Ripley; but even then...).

I have just spent the last two hours wishing I was Emily Blunt in "The Adjustment Bureau." Much as I spent a lot of watching "Birdsong" wishing I was Clemence Poesy. Eddie Redmayne's a pretty darn winning one too. Except I'd want to inhabit a fantasy universe in which there was no death and destruction and Mr Redmayne and I just had lovely freckle-nosed babies together and lived on stinky cheese and red wine.

What can I say, living in the middle of nowhere with a small shaggy dog as my most regular companion has left me a lot of time for extremely far-fetched daydreaming. I'm not sure I'd entirely enjoy life in early twentieth century France though. The corsets and lack of gender equality might prove tedious.

(On an entirely unrelated note, I've been eating a lot of humbugs lately; it's upsetting when you get one that isn't chewy in the middle.)

Coco Pops!

Coco Pops Moons and Stars and Rice Crispies.

For reasons unclear, my father arrived home last night with a present for me: a Kellogs Fun Pack. It's an odd sort of an offering for a twenty-nine-year-old. And perhaps the first time ever that my father has faciliated my eating sugary cereal. Maybe he's making up for all those years of not allowing me Coco Pops. How I remember the joys of visiting other people's houses with "children's cereal." The breakfast stuffs of my early years were stricly cocoa and sugar free.