And I Think I Like How the Day Sounds

I'm feeling more human. Last night we had one of our epic Sunday meals. We're pinching pennies so it was meatless, but what I find as an ex-vegetarian is that meatless meals feel just as natural as any other kind. The crown jewel was the pudding--boiled pears drizzled in chocolate and chili, which we followed with coffee and calvados, which is nicest if you don't put too much of the spirit in (I did). It was a warm evening so we ate in the garden.

While we were cooking, we shared a jug of Pimms. I wanted to know what my life looked like from the outside. I went to the far reaches of the garden; I could see the terraced houses of East Oxford just starting to light up, and the potato plants that have begun to droop onto the walkway, and the window to the spare bedroom, and the garden shed that houses a broken bicycle, a bird's nest, a veritable lace net of cobwebs, a host of dusty tools and cleaning supplies. I went closer so I could see through the window into the kitchen. There was a lot of food, and bottles of wine, and some handpicked lavender in a vase, and four young Englishmen, and an incongruous salt lamp from Poland (it really is made of salt--about twelve people, including me, have licked it to check). So that's what it looks like, I thought.

Today I take the recycling out. I say hello to my bicycle, which is something I do every day. I make a salad of avocado, mozzarella, and French dressing. I idly rearrange some books, which is what I do when I think I want to clean the house but know deep down I don't really. I wonder if I want a bath or not. I think I'll likely walk into town later for a drink, if it isn't raining, and if it doesn't take me too long to get dressed (it always does).

So that's what it looks like.