From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success

Okay, so the bread was a bit dense. Which I take very personally - I do not bake dense bread; and besides, I have paid in pain and setbacks for this loaf - but it was an odd recipe anyway. Next time I will follow my instincts.

Next time I make a Bey's Tagine, I'll use a rubber mould. It stuck catastrophically, even to my favourite well-seasoned loaf tin; I served it as a mountain of rubble, rather than neat layered slices. People still ate half of it, though, so that's okay. Tastes nice. (Since you ask, it's basically minced-lamb-and-onion distributed through a layer of spinach, a layer of cheese and a layer of parsley.)

And then there was the conger eel tagine (sounds unlikely, I know, but it's a genuine recipe: onions and raisins, chermoula of parsley, coriander and saffron) and the rabbit-and-celery ragout (which was another genuine recipe until I added the celery) and the squash-and-chickpea vegetable stew that I'd have to go downstairs to check the name, because it has apostrophes and unpronounceability in its favour. Almost as if it came from a fantasy novel, la.

And the rhubarb cake! All hail the rhubarb cake. With rose-petal preserve, to go with the rosewater in the recipe.

My house is full of dirty dishes. And empty of contented guests, but only because they all went home.

Today I shall do the washing-up, and that might be about it. I can haz day off?

My day off

If they had asked me (and they certainly should have asked me) what I wanted to do on this day I was so determined to have off, then digging out a blocked drain and breaking through the most extraordinary and foul-smelling corrosion that had blocked it would have been, shall we say, not high on my list?

Still, it had to be done, and it was done; and then I felt virtuous. And smelly. All the clothes I was wearing are now in the wash, because careful though I was, the aroma was definitely lingering on something and I don't think it's me.

My reward was to spend most of the day watching telly. They showed me Ladyhawke, which was kind of them, as it is my Best Fantasy Film Ever. I think one of the reasons I love it is that it's so controlled: almost the opposite of epic, without being at all domestic, the plot turns and turns in ever-decreasing circles, the inverse of a widening gyre. And there is only the one instance of magic, the curse that drives the story. I like that: control again, controlled imagination. It's the essence of good fantasy, keeping it leashed. Keeping it real whenever you can.

On the other hand: given how often I've watched it, how can I never have noticed before how truly terrible the opening title music is?

Perhaps it was unkind of them to show it immediately before Battle of Britain, where the music is truly epic. Ah, William Walton: well done, that man.

So, yup. I have watched the ballet of death, and now I am tired of the TV (apart from suddenly wanting a huge flatscreen, which I do not have).

What I have really been wanting to do all day is eat. Which, with a houseful of leftovers and lots of TV, is a desire most easy to indulge: and yet, I am still hungry. What is this, where did this come from? Is this the first sign of swine flu, that I suddenly have the appetite of a swine?

I shall go and clean something else. I have already done drains, the laundry and the washing-up, but there is certainly something else that needs cleaning. Then I might allow myself to nibble on an olive. Or two.