He flourisheth as the green bay tree

Every now and then, I - yes, even I - like sardines on toast for lunch. The toast, of course, is my own sourdough; the sardines - well. Suffice to say that today's sardines came with their own bayleaf in the tin, 'k? These are good sardines.

Anyway. Lunch happened, as it does. Mac materialised, as he does. He volunteered to spare me the washing-up; I said sure, fine, whatever, and went back to reading m'book. Next time I looked up, he was straining severely, much like a cat who has been watching too many snakes and tried to swallow something bigger than his head. Just for a moment there, I was anxious; but one last effortful gulp and it was gone, and he was back to licking the very last streaks of olive oil from the plate.

From the entirely clean and empty plate.

Yup. There went the bayleaf.

I'm sure it must be good for him. Mustn't it...?

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and ... oh. Damn. Just me, then

I don't do lonely. Never have. Just as well, really. In the circs. Only, I do keep looking around for Karen, and finding her oddly not here. Strange, that.

In nine days' time, I'll be in mid-air and on my way there, just when the Rapture strikes. Apparently. D'you suppose it'll take me first, because I'm closer?

In the meantime, I have a crust of fresh bread and a glass of wine, and a list of things I have to do before I go. It's not that I make the best bread in the world, just that I do make it exactly to my taste. Along with almost everything else I make, actually. That's going to be another odd thing, adjusting my cooking to someone else's preferences. Something else to look forward to: I'm tired of cooking for me, I always get it right.

In the meantime, the most difficult thing? Is drawing up a cat-feeding rota, for my absence. Spelling out exactly how I'll be taking advantage of my friends, scheduling their favours. I kind of hate this.