Hours and hours and hours

Because I'm a forgetful idiot, yesterday when I ordered a coffee at Starbucks I forgot to ask for decaf. I realised before I drank it but because I didn't want to waste it (even though I'd wasted £2.25 on something I didn't need already), and lo, how I paid. I slept from between 2-4am, then zombied my way to work where, incredibly, I managed to stay quite alert. I tried getting some kind of make-you-drowsy medicine, similar to what I'd taken on a nightmare flight between San Francisco and London, but apparently taking stuff like that isn't conducive to staying seizure free. This means I am stuck tweaking my already pretty perfect sleep routine of warm milk with amaretto, breathing exercises and reading. I am ready to drink the bottle of lavender I bought if it'll take the edge off.

I do have one reason to be thankful, however: because I've been going in hyper early and leaving at 4pm this week, I missed the months worth of rain that fell over London during the rush hour yesterday. I did, however, cut the roof of my mouth later that night on a bit of pastry made, in retrospect totally, by the mirana.

This afternoon on my trek home from the station, I sawa dog that looked like a shaved old English sheepdog straddling the front and back seats of an old Mercedes. I tried not to look suspicious, but not taking a photo was absolutely beyond my restraint.

On the way I also saw a man whose face had the expression I can only liken to that of a crazed loon (eyes popping out of his head, teeth like something iron-aged and generally a look of discomfort in his own skin), and a man who appeared to have stolen a child. Of course, I did nothing about any of these because by the time I'd reached ye olde Welwyn Garden City, I'd lost all speech skills. I grunted my request for dinner; thankfully my younger sister is also a grunter so she was able to understand that I wanted a jacket potato with beans and cheese.