Smear That Shit

Honey and walnut sourdough from my new favourite bakery.
Smear that shit with bitter orange marmalade.
Brew up a good coffee.
Breakfast of champions.

You Might Want To Rewrite That A Little More Carefully

Email from the boss this morning:

"The plumber has been in to investigate our toilet problem.

New parts are required, so he will be back with them next week to resolve.

The toilet therefore remains out of use.

It is however ok to continue to use the shower."

I told him "But I don't WANT to pee in the shower."

Yay, Eurotrash

Eurovision last night and I indulged in my usual drinking game: a shot of scotch for every gratuitous key change in a final chorus. I gave up three songs in; I'd have had to drink pints of the stuff had I carried on.
Sheesh.
Watching Pilou Asbæk camp it up as host was decidedly weird after Borgen, but on a night when the same old same old includes a bearded drag queen as winner, gratuitous boobage on an epic scale, glitter, bad frocks, appalling dancing, atonal shrieking, execrable songs, cringe-inducingly embarrassing ad-libs and political bitching and xenophobia nothing really surprises any more.
Roll on next year.

It Takes a Lot of Practice but Men Are Really Good At It Now

"Hi, We're The NSA."

Man Flu

I wake up, semi-delirious,
certain I can hear voices,
but there's no-one there when I check the house;
just my books, shuffling about,
surreptitiously
rearranging themselves behind my back
and murmuring;
reading to one another
when they think I'm asleep.

I'm convinced they're up to something.
Keep that amount of words in a confined space
and there's sure to be
mischief.