Skip to main content

Sundays are for pancakes and lie-ins.

That's right, folks. Although, my morning wasn't quite as straightforward as the title might imply...

Having woken up around six to chaos in the flat due to a moggie-chase (knocking over silver candlesticks in the fireplace was a sure fire way to guarantee human companionship) I managed to doze off until eight. Upon waking, I made myself a proper coffee in the cafetiere, something I rarely bother with as freeze-dried is so much easier, but hell, it's Sunday and I'm feeling indulgent. Upon Himself's arrival into the Land of Consciousness (how did he sleep through the feline fracas???), I decided to make pancakes, unaware of the fact that he had chucked out the eggs the night before. *lol* My tummy just wouldn't settle for cereal after pancakes had been optioned, so I toddled off down the shops in search of chicken fruits.

Eggs procured, I made the pancakes, slathered them in peanut butter and chopped banana in case you were wondering, then decided back to bed was the order of the day. I gathered Rand al'Thor in a loving embrace and settled in for a relaxing read. This wouldn't have been an issue, except... there was A Fly in the house. This was not to be tolerated by the furry four leggeds, and yet another high speed chase ensued.

During this bout, Kit discovered newly achievable heights...


... which led to Himself having to extricate her from the blinds as once she'd attained the window ledge she couldn't quite figure out the getting down part.


That said, Kit caught The Fly, maimed it so it couldn't fly away again, and was settling down to eat it when Himself's squeamish sensibilities kicked in and he tissued and binned it. Not A Happy Kit.

On an even more amusing note, guess what I found this morning? Himself had a gray hair. *grin* His first. And I say "had", because he didn't believe me it was there, which forced me to pull it and brandish it's ghostliness about an inch away from his nose. His retort? A sheepish grin accompanied by "it's blonde." Let me assure you, dear readers, it's NOT blonde. For the attention of the court, ladies and gentlemen, The Hair.


See how nicely it shows up against the black of my camera strap? That, friends, is a gray hair. Not blonde. Gray.

So, now that you're all caught up with the minutiae of our Sunday morning, go enjoy yours. Make real coffee, it's worth it. x

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The real deal.

So, I thought I'd been having cravings for the last couple of weeks because I've been eating loads of tuna and pasta, seemed like that was all I wanted to eat. Tuna sandwiches with a cup of tomato soup to dip them in, and egg noodle pasta for some reason. That is, until Monday night. Monday night, Himself called me on his way home from work as usual and asked if we needed anything (again, as usual). I said no, that I'd already been to the store but I wasn't really hungry anyway, and that I'd see him when he got home. I settled in with the cats on the couch and started flicking channels, getting the girlie TV out of the way so that Himself wouldn't have to suffer through it when he got home... Half an hour later, it struck. All of a sudden, out of the blue, I was starving. It wasn't the usual "go rifle through the kitchen until I happen upon something that looks edible" hunger. It was specific, overpowering, CRAVING hunger. What did I want,

Lazy weekend.

Bliss. Sun, moglets, sun, loads of good food, sun, and Himself. Good combo, let me tell you. We let the moggies out sans leads for the first time on Thursday (sporting their new collars and tags, and freshly dosed with flea drops), just for about an hour to see how they handled it. Both of them tore headlong into the flowerbeds in search of new smells and the occasional bug to eat. On Friday I left the back doors of the conservatory flung open to let the seriously amazing weather in and the felines out. This turned into me sitting in the conservatory for longer than I'd care to admit, book discarded to one side because watching them chase bees, butterflies and each other was more amusing. Saturday morning dawned clear and sunny, so I hied myself down to the conservatory (as I woke up around half six and thought Himself might rather sleep a LITTLE longer...) for a bowl of muesli, a cup of peppermint tea, some reading and yet more book neglecting as I watched the lunatics conti

Dreams and other nocturnal habits.

I've always been a dreamer, in the literal sense. From a very young age I've been able to remember my dreams, and once I started a dream one night and finished it the next. This sounds great, and I've had some seriously fabulous nocturnal journeys through time and space, but on the flip side, not all dreams are good ones. I've had some proper toe-curling nightmares, and some of the worst ones have been in my adult years. The reason this is on my mind particularly right now is that I had a pretty gnarly one night before last, and during yesterday's aforementioned pestering phone call to my sister I told her about it. She told me that her boyfriend had been doing a little reading about dreams in general, and had researched (and actually put into practice) a tactic of dreaming deliberately. The research he found described the way to consciously go to sleep with a certain event or setting in mind, which basically ensures where your dreams will go. Apparently this