My head hurts...

...which is most unfair, actually, because as I trudged up the stairs to bath and bed last night it struck me that I hadn't had a drink all day, and how rare is that?

As it happens, I am something of a hangover-denier in any case. I don't believe in 'em, will have no truck with the nasty things; so waking up with a headache on the back of no alcohol is just ... unreasonable.

Obviously, I blame work. I almost broke my tongue with talking yesterday: two solid hours in the evening, after tutorials in the afternoon. I don't normally utter so much in a month. Still, one more tutorial and that'll be it pre-California; and there'll be something close to two hundred quid in my bank when I come back. It ain't much, but it'll pay the mortgage.

And now I must dash to the Lit & Phil to be photographed. Again. Bright flashes in the eyes. That'll help the headache, oh yes. And set me up lovely for a day of writing.

In other news, I reject my cafetiere. I spurn it. There's something weird in the design, where it spurts from the spout when I depress the plunger however careful I am. I get coffee in my pepper and grounds in my cup, and I'm fed up with it.

Also, I don't know whether to blame the pseudo-hangover demanding pseudo-treatment, or the presence of the world's best marmalade, but I ate a slice of toast this morning. Breakfast. What's that about?

*feels weird*

*goes*

The belly has its reasons

Why, you ask, is Barry happy?

Barry is happy because he got Extra Tea.

Why so, you ask?

Because Mac didn't want his tea, so Barry ate it.

And why, you ask, did dear Mac not want his tea?

Because dear Mac had already raided the shopping and gorged himself on bloody lamb's kidneys, is why. As I have just discovered.

I am getting so fucking fed up with this. Of course there is a solution, which would be to lock away everything edible the instant it entered the house, and always to put everything back in lock-up the moment I was finished with it, and never to leave anything fragile anywhere exposed, and and and. And that is so orthogonal to the way I work and think and am, it would mean rewriting not only my lifestyle but my whole damn character, as well as my whole damn house; and I don't believe I'm capable. (The reason I neglected the shopping? Is because I came in and dumped the shopping-bag in the dining-room as I always do, and went back into the hall to shed my jacket, only the zip broke so I had to pull it off over my head like a sweater and then fix the zip, and by the time I'd done that and taken off my boots I was already thinking about e-mail and work and so forth, which is all upstairs, so... yup. I came upstairs, as I always do. And forgot the shopping.)

And now that I have washed the blood out of the new backpack, I am going to pour another glass of wine and do some bloody work.

Sorry, this one doesn't get to be a poem.

In contrast to my own cats...

I just think this one's funny.