Chelsea buns
Up with the sparrows, or considerably before the sparrows as the evil black cat that torments our cats was fighting with Brian through the cat door. It sounds as if people are crashing into the house at five in the morning. If I could ever catch that black cat I would give it a good hiding, for this is a psychocat: elusive and violent. It even went for Lorraine the other day when she was shooing it.
So, up and finishing the brochure about short stature in children. Then other practical tasks to do with renting my house, taking meter readings, catching up with billing, popping into the gym and so on. Had a leisurely afternoon however and in the evening the cats and I watched a slovenly Chelsea performance where they threw away the game in the last ten minutes.
I support Chelsea because of a currant bun. It is Dave, my Grandfather's fault. As a teenager, shortly before the second world war, he was working in his parent's cafe on the Esplanade in St Peter Port cafe. Some of his pals came in and asked him what football team he supported. He didn't support any team at the time, but happened to be serving a Chelsea bun so he said Chelsea. He later went on to call his house Chelsea, and have a small Chelsea shrine in the corner of the dining room. Growing up around this meant that, for me, being a Chelsea fan was not even a conscious choice. So when I find myself grinding my teeth watching the Blues, it is because of a wretched bun.
Out of my own slovenliness forked down a Chinese takeaway scored before the match from a local place. The food is laced with MSG however and I found myself itchy and flushed afterwards.
Lorraine returned this evening after her conference. She'd only been gone one day and I had missed her and felt a bit lonely. After years of living on my own where I never felt lonely, it is a bit bizarre and sinister that I missed her.
Below the bun of destiny.
Up with the sparrows, or considerably before the sparrows as the evil black cat that torments our cats was fighting with Brian through the cat door. It sounds as if people are crashing into the house at five in the morning. If I could ever catch that black cat I would give it a good hiding, for this is a psychocat: elusive and violent. It even went for Lorraine the other day when she was shooing it.
So, up and finishing the brochure about short stature in children. Then other practical tasks to do with renting my house, taking meter readings, catching up with billing, popping into the gym and so on. Had a leisurely afternoon however and in the evening the cats and I watched a slovenly Chelsea performance where they threw away the game in the last ten minutes.
I support Chelsea because of a currant bun. It is Dave, my Grandfather's fault. As a teenager, shortly before the second world war, he was working in his parent's cafe on the Esplanade in St Peter Port cafe. Some of his pals came in and asked him what football team he supported. He didn't support any team at the time, but happened to be serving a Chelsea bun so he said Chelsea. He later went on to call his house Chelsea, and have a small Chelsea shrine in the corner of the dining room. Growing up around this meant that, for me, being a Chelsea fan was not even a conscious choice. So when I find myself grinding my teeth watching the Blues, it is because of a wretched bun.
Out of my own slovenliness forked down a Chinese takeaway scored before the match from a local place. The food is laced with MSG however and I found myself itchy and flushed afterwards.
Lorraine returned this evening after her conference. She'd only been gone one day and I had missed her and felt a bit lonely. After years of living on my own where I never felt lonely, it is a bit bizarre and sinister that I missed her.
Below the bun of destiny.
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