How long?

You know, when I first began this blog, I had such high hopes for it. It was to be a noble record of a life, Pepysian in its scope and intricacy, Nabokovian in its flair and linguistic elan. In years to come it would be feted throughout academia as an insightful work of, dare I say it, genius.

In the event, inevitably, I really couldn't be arsed.

But, aha!, all that has now changed. I find myself in the employ of a company who don't require me to do terribly much, and the empty, empty hours must be filled somehow. So we are back on track. Let the stultifying mundanity commence...

Last night (or thereabouts) I attempted to make an omelette. Not that I've never made an omelette before, but it's been a while. One's omeletteering skills, as I'm sure you know, become rusty so quickly if one doesn't keep one's hand in. I, sadly, had let my ovular techniques slip into redundancy. It was like my first time all over again (and hey, we all remember that first time, right? The bashful handling of the eggs, the shy uncertainty over which gas-mark to use, the over-enthusiastic seasoning...) But I was not to be deterred. I'd done it before, and assumed that it would be very much like riding a bike.

As it turns out, it wasn't anything like riding a bike. What idiot came up with that? I know how to ride a bike, and would venture that the Venn diagrams of bike-riding and omelette-making intersect at no point whatsoever. What use is the ability to execute a 360 degree bunny-hop when you have a sizzling, blackened, scab-like crust of eggs rapidly welding itself to the pan? No use at all. (I tried executing a 360 degree bunny-hop - I was desperate. If anything, it only made matters worse.)

So: in a flash of brilliance (something to which I am especially prone) I decided not to make an omelette after all. Omelette? Ha! They are SO not cool any more. Scrambled eggs are where it's at. Scrambled eggs are so much more edgy, more real than the dowdy old omelette. Luckily, my abortive omelette resembled scrambled eggs to such a degree that it practically was scrambled eggs already. I imagine the inventor of scrambled eggs (whoever he may be) found himself in much the same situation. "Damn it, this omelette's gone badly wrong. But I've no other food in the house, so I'll have to eat it. Ho hum. Munch munch. Hey! This is not bad!"

Scrambled eggs it was then. Pretty nice they were too, although you don't get much for three eggs. Oh, and I grated some cheese on top too. Cheddar cheese.

I'm going to end now on an entirely unrelated but impassioned plea to anyone who happens to chance upon my ramblings. Here it is:

PLEASE stop saying 'myself' when you mean 'me'. It's so WRONG. It's not 'You need to speak to myself'. It's not 'That'll be myself.' It's not 'Myself and my colleague'. It's me. Me me me me.

That'll be all for now.