The weekend caught up with me at about five o’clock this afternoon, just as I was sitting in a coffee shop trying to get on with some studying. One minute I was reading about why I should never ask a prime minister to do a favour for me in the same manner that I would a plant, and the next I was imagining that the chair opposite me had begun to ingest me. Sadly there was nothing imaginary about the way that people were beginning to look at me. My sense of shame also felt pretty darn acute.
Today I discovered the joys of homemade oatmeal. As I sat back and tucked into a warm bowl of goodness, replete with raisins, honey, cinnamon, and enough fibre to take care of the annual IBS luncheon, I reflected on the fact that it had finally come to this; that I was now of an age where my enjoyment came from a bowl of oats. Casting aside hopes of eternal youth, I picked up my spoon, turned on ‘The Archers’, and fell into day-dreaming about my imminent retirement in Bournemouth.