15:2

If you were me, wouldn't you feel a little cheated too when you had spent more than fifteen minutes waiting for your chicken drumstick to be cooked, and then less than two minutes cleaning it to the bone?

*****

So far, I have run pretty much.  Cooked a little.   Read very little.  Stoned a lot.  Chilled a lot too.  Ironed none, 'cept for the wrinkled tee shirt I had insisted on wearing today.  Mopped only that bit of the floor where I've dripped some detergent upon.

I have done two lunch-ins.  Three sandwiches.  One sushi roll.  One chicken drumstick that seemed to have shrunk upon steaming.  One lousy omelette.  Half a bottle of red.  Mouthfuls of grapes.  Endless packets of addictive wang wang biscuits.  Two cartons of soya milk.  Didn't really eat a lot.

And I haven't been able to get out by six.

Oh, but I have watched six episodes of probably the only Taiwanese serial that has ever impressed me.

The sink's still mucked up.  The hot water's fooling around with me.

I had my blood boil.  And I had my heart wince.

So I suppose I still don't feel quite normal yet.