Yesterday was World Porridge Day, and one of the few days where I didn’t actually eat porridge – partly because I had a bacon and lettuce wrap instead, and partly because I couldn’t think of a recipe worthy of being ‘the porridge I ate on World Porridge Day’. I’ll probably eat porridge today instead.
Instead, I made the aforementioned wraps, tidied, watched some rotating desktop wallpapers go round hypnotically, had a cup of tea go cold as I tried to drink it, looked at some art, peeled a parsnip and chopped a pepper, did the laundry, choose an FPS game over a point and click game, killed 100 zombies by shooting them in the head and then escaped a hospital in a helicopter, and hoovered the ferret room.
The nights aren’t yet cold enough to be uncomfortable. When I’m out they feel strangely silent and at peace, but whatever direction I walk in the hum of machinery or throb of bass eventually shows up to break the quiet.
Not today, but lately: I’ve read all three books of The Hunger Games far too quickly, desperately hoarding spare moments where I could get through the next chapter. I discovered what people mean when they say they woke up still drunk, and was deeply disappointed to learn that it means careening down the stairs to a blurry bathtub and throwing up bright orange. And I watched Serial Experiments Lain with a friend and we both discussed how we will probably never understand at least half of it.