fpf?+29: I look up, but all I see is the ceiling

(written 18 June 2010)

Gross:
Early one morning the other week at the squash courts at the varsity at 7 in the morning - a chilly, frosty morning. Nose-numbingly cold, the type of morning where your breath condenses. I needed the loo so I went to the urinal and started my slash and looked down, and my glasses misted up, and I realised to my horror...


Excerpt from William's supremo waffle desert recipe, related to me in the car this evening on the way home:
"We need a waffle - lllll - and some honey"
"Good idea"
"And like some syrup stuff - ?"
"Maple syrup?"
"No - um - syrup stuff - ?"
"Golden Syrup!"
"-"
"Syrup?"
"Syrup!"
"OK - syrup!"
"And 40 of those chocolates they put in ice-creams"
"Flakes?"
"Yes!"
"40?"
"Yip."

And sometimes they suck, even on Friday:

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Too smile-tired for the millionaires,
to haul the fat deflated heart around.
Heavy eyes that weigh my head to bed,
lying thick, gigantic and unmoving -
my dreams have half the height, with half the punches,
they don't survive the night out there
it's cold and I don't think of them that often.

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With the severity of a winter toilet,

Tom