I’m missing being able to run. Although my hands and feet don’t hurt any more, I have some revolting purple blotches on my toes and the continued lethargy means going for a run around MacRitchie is quite out of the question. Having not done any exercise, my legs are beginning to ache. Or perhaps that comes from sleeping on the sofa every night.
Today I didn’t do much: I went and bought coffees at The Duxton, an unimaginatively named hotel near Duxton Hill. The coffee is fine even if the name isn’t astounding. I’ve been drinking flat whites lately, which you can think of as milkier lattes: I scoured the internet for an explanation of the differences, and some people will claim they’re indistinguishable, or that the difference is a flat white has more shots of espresso than a latte, but the only description that makes sense is that if you know what a cappuccino is (espresso, lots of milk foam) and you know what a latte is (espresso, milk, foam) then a flat white is just a bit further along that continuum from foam to milk. It’s a milky coffee, basically, and now I’ll be pursued by the enraged coffee cognoscenti until the end of my days, for dangerously oversimplifying things.
Or I could go to Seattle, pop into a Starbucks and ask a barista there for a flat white and a tall black, and possibly get embroiled in a bust-up about racist nomenclature. I just want to have my coffee and drink it, but my accent may conspire against me.
Of course, that will come as no surprise to long time readers, since the time I almost said something bad at Loof. Well, somebody misheard me say something bad, but same difference and all that.
After fetching coffee, I went out with La Serpiente to buy spinach for our breakfast smoothies, and to try to stop her from pulling boxes of eggs off the shelves in the supermarket. Our daughter wanted to ride in her stroller, whereas I wanted her strapped onto me: I prefer to have both hands free if I need to fight while fleeing a zombie outbreak at any local shopping mall. Unfortunately, she got the stroller, which became increasingly difficult the more uppity she got, until I was trying to juggle her and my phone while calling home to see if my wife wanted the spinach I’d found or not. Fortunately, she didn’t. Otherwise we would have had a week ahead of us of the most brackish smoothies known to man.
This afternoon we had a Thanksgiving party to attend. My wife baked and iced cakes while our daughter slept. Miraculously, her shouting fit at the supermarket wore her out so much that she slept for almost two hours, giving us time to clean and tidy, rather than breed fruit flies in a sink full of dirty crockery.
As well as doing the washing up, we dinged up our iPad when it slipped from my wife’s grasp onto the kitchen floor: there is a sizeable dent in the bottom, and a cobweb of cracks across the bottom part of the screen. Arriving at the party, we dropped a bowl of cranberry sauce, and thankfully our third breakage was when our daughter dropped a cheap ornament, rather than us dropping her onto a flagstone or something awful.
So today was not very eventful, but at least my body is recovering. By tomorrow perhaps all will be fine.