"The following is a first-person account of the events of Tuesday, 24th February 2015, written over the course of 12 hours by one Margaret Kay."
— James Joyce
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| Image by renaissancechambara via Flickr |
MORNING
I'm sitting in an office waiting to be briefed on a piece of work. There's nothing to do now except fondle my neck zit and refresh the Zimbabwe vs. West Indies Cricket World Cup live feed on BBC Sport.
You know what I'm into? Giant 20-ounce paper cups of peppermint tea. From Starbucks or Costa (Starbucks' main UK competitor). Isn't that one of the most early-2000s thing you've ever heard? I'm only one-third of the way through the cup and my bladder's already about to burst. My hands, however, are warm. Very warm. That's what's important.
MIDDAY
OH! I'm so tired.
I got a cheese/tomato/lettuce baguette from Greggs. They call it a "mature cheddar salad baguette". Ew. The name needs work. I'm eating it. It's scraping the roof of my mouth raw. I love it. I wish I had four more.
Zimbabwe lost.
EVENING
I'm home. Andy heated my PJs, which are actually his PJs, on the radiator for me to throw on immediately after walking through the door. What a gent.
We're making fish tacos for dinner. We ate them last weekend and have been raving about how good they were ever since.
I'm salivating. It's breaded fish too. Not that healthy pink kind. You know what I'm talking about.
It's not that I dislike salmon. Salmon's great! But sometimes you just want old fashioned, breaded white fish that tastes like Friday suppers in the 1950s. Fish tacos is even a bit too exotic. I could really go for some mash, a side of peas and a big dollop of katsup for dipping. Maybe tomorrow night.
BEDTIME
After reading through my day's events, one thing's clear: I'm infatuated with food. I can't deny it.
Food is the flagellum propelling me through this murky mystery we call life.
Now I'm eating a yoghurt (see?) and reading this book about a girl whose sister was a chimp. I can't tell if I like it or not. My guess is that I think it's medium.
Same time again tomorrow.
Yours,
Margaret
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