Breakfast Boredom

Here goes: I'm trying for the prize of most boring post of the year.

Saturdays. …
What a bunch of arse.

Most people love 'em, but for me they're simply a gateway to housework hell.
Because I get up in the middle of the night and don't get home until bedtime each weekday, I have to fit all of the shopping, washing, cleaning, dusting, polishing, gardening, lawn-mowing, car-cleaning, vacuuming, visiting, rehearsing, gigging, socialising and very, very occasionally a teensy bit of relaxing in front of an old black and white movie into my weekends.

It gets kind of hectic.
Which is why I always try to start with a relaxing breakfast.



I've written about these for over a year, but here at last is a picture of one.
Hey, I know it's boring, but whilst it was gloriously sunny here first thing, by the time I got into Norwich the weather had settled - like a surly teenager - into a grey, moody sulk, so I photographed the only cheerful thing I could find. Caffeine: my drug of choice.
Saturday breakfast time is also the only time I get to catch up on stuff with Phil. Those are his knees in the photo. He's smart, funny, younger and better looking than me, single and available, ladies!

So … Dive's Saturday morning …
Nine o'clock sharp.
Upstairs in Waterstone's bookshop as always.
As we wander in, tutting like the middle-aged pedants that we are at the Christmas crapfest of TV tie-ins and pathetically unfunny non-books, Natalie brews up two medium, fairtrade lattes - one in a glass; one in a bucket; an extra shot in the glass (mine) - and this morning, Phil goes for a raspberry sticky slice and Dive goes for a festive mince tart, just for Maria and Bing.

I grab the Guardian off the rack on the wall and dismember it; Phil takes the Sports section for the rugby and I purloin the only readable part of any Saturday newspaper: the book review, moaning as always that the stupid printers put the "Family" section inside the "Review" section.
Why? For crying out loud; the type of person who reads the book reviews is NOT going to have stupid fucking kids running around the place and starts twitching and looking around for handy weapons at the sight of happy families enjoying themselves. Put it somewhere I don't have to look at it.

Much moaning and taking the piss out of the world and some raucous chortles ensue, interrupted only by communal glaring at the twatty bint with the mobile phone who is shouting "Hello? … Yeah … I'm in a bookshop … No, a BOOK shop!"
Shut the fuck up!
She's not a regular; she probably doesn't have a single book in her house and is only here to buy crappy fucking non-books for her equally vacuous relatives' Christmas presents.
Amazingly, she catches my murderous glare and drops her voice to a normal conversational level, saving her from a mobile phone enema.

After breakfast we hit the shops. Except that Christmas is coming so there's nothing worth buying and everything that has been reduced all year is now full price and will remain so until January.
£39.99 for The Simpsons PS2 game? Fuck off!
So this morning, Phil toddles off to Harvey's the organic butchers to further his quixotic quest to put into his mouth, masticate and ingest every weird, slimy, hairy, or pulsating thing that hops, crawls, slithers, writhes or scuttles across the face of the planet while I slink off home to my housework.

And to write without doubt the most boring post of my long and tedious blog-life.
Hey ho … here comes housework.