The subject of morning coffee has arisen. I now take a single cup of coffee of a morning, to accompany my toast and marmite at around 9.30. I have a latte, one of the benefits of the New Regime being the installation of a proper coffee machine making fresh coffee. Occasionally I will have further coffee, a single cup, in the afternoon, taken as an emergency measure when I realise that I am about to bang my chin on the table in a particularly needless and tedious meeting. Very occasionally I allow myself the indulgence of a cup of tea; nothing fancy, just strong tea, no sugar and a petit nuage, an expression used to describe my tea-drinking which I learnt from a French friend, of milk.
I've mentioned before that I used to drink staggering amounts of tea, and I do still miss it sometimes, but there we are. It isn't really very good for me, and it really isn't very good for anybody in my vicinity.
I spent a large part of the day under the impression that somebody was eating foie gras. I could smell it, I just couldn't see it. I was also aware that for a large part of the day I suffered from persistent flatulence. Then I realised that the two were connected. It was a consequence of eating a facefull of chicken liver fricasse last night. The secret ingredient was the addition of some slices of sweet potato.
I started writing this on Thursday, it's now Friday. What a day. But I won't bore you with that.
There are limits for any man, the point at which he really will tell people to Just Shut The Fuck Up. I used to do that, used to tell them exactly that, but these days, well, I tend to point out that I don't really need to be having that particular conversation with them, they're welcome to do something if they can do it better - Violet Elizabeth was somebody who had to be told that - but I'm going to leave it. I don't really expect to be getting a slating from my own team when I've just been getting stamped on by the opposition front row, know what I mean? If you give me a bow and arrows to fight against a tank, don't be surprised when I stagger back later, a bit bloodied, and get a bit ratty when you mention that you had a sword too...
Anyway, I don't get so narky these days. I just terminate the conversation. It will be curt, nay abrupt, but it will be quiet, clear and, in every sense, discrete. 1-0 to the Greek Genius, I guess. (I didn't like a recent comment, intended as a compliment, that I "fought like a Trojan." The Trojans lost. But then I have often compared myself to Cassandra.)
Have you ever had that moment, when you catch sight of somebody, or think of somebody, when you suddenly feel such a strong emotion in your heart that you catch your breath, put your hand to your mouth and have to close your eyes? For that briefest of moments you are totally isolated, alien to all that is around you, removed.
I'm waiting for my regular take-away, my Friday treat, which I will wash down with a cold ale from the 'fridge, having warmed up with a trio of stiff gins. I'm debating whether to watch 'Baghdad Cafe' - I love that film and haven't seen it for yonks.
There's an actress on the telly, I've no idea who she is, with a great pair of legs. I'm not notoriously a legs man, more a breasts and bum man (oh, and shape, not size is what matters here at the Bakery). That reads as though I have the option. Ha fucking ha.
Sorry to be a bit blue this week, Krustyans (or would you prefer Krustacea? Let me know), but that's the way it is. Ain't life funny?