I have no news. Or, at least, nothing blogworthy. I had a lovely walk along the South Bank last night and then went home and roasted my first ever pork joint. Is it just me or does that sound like a repellent euphemism? If you found one, please ignore it: my meaning was literal. Making crackling crackle is harder than I thought but I'm pleased to say I kind of managed it. My favourite thing about today was falling asleep in the square opposite my work and waking up to find that two consecutive lunchbreaks in the March sun have resulted in a few freckles and rosy cheeks. I know it's unhealthy in the long term, but in the short term, having a bit of colour is so pleasant that I will take the consequences. Plus I think it's probably a bit late for me to start worrying about sun damage, given that I was practically a professional tanner in my teens. Ah well. Worse things have happened at sea. Innit.
What else? My new oven gloves have arrived. As has my second hand BT phone. And our new book club book. But I'm still stuck on this month's Prospect magazine. Seems to be becoming more of a chore than a pleasure although I'm always so smug when I've read it. I listened to a podcast today of an In Our Time about quantum mechanics, and vaguely learned about the difference between quantum physics and Newtonian physics. Something to do with a cat belonging to someone called Schroedinger or similar. I've got to go to the gym in 14 minutes and I'm dreading it - but I have a fun few evenings on the horizon and, other than continued numbness, all is well.
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