Just what is it about melted butter and digestive biscuits, all squeaky and salty underneath the spoon, squashing down, hoping some crumbs are just not buttery enough to stay. I thought about the 64p packet cheesecakes we used to make, the ones I browse in Sainsbury's on darker days, or when I don't have 12-14 to feed. Times that by 1.333forever and it's 16-19. Starts sounding like some sort of privileged cake holiday.
I am a bit grumpy that I got up so late, and that the making of the cheesecake is keeping me in the house on birthday morning. But yesterday was so grim I sometimes find hibernation a fair reward. I left work at 5pm and got in past 8. I took five modes of transport. I wasn't thinking straight. I took my return overground journey for the pointless value of it, I got off at Euston in an impromptu (and fraudulent) attempt at railcard renewal, I got the bus to Angel for Waitrose in particular, a failed thought that bulk mozzarella was cheaper there.
I got on the next bus to Northumberland Park, confusing it not only with the Donna Summer song 'MacArthur Park', but also forgetting I don't live in Stoke Newington anymore. I changed to the final bus and had already made a fair dint in the digestives, I felt gross and tired and unable to be rescued. It took me a while to realise that I was supposed to go to bed, so with my eye on that I didn't apply for the job but I painted my nails and went into hibernation mode. It is very cold.
So here we are. A bright birthday day, 12pm, still a cheesecake to bake and a hospital appointment to be made and hopefully some daylight to be had. I think I was kidding myself that drawing on Hampstead Heath would be anything other than freezing. The romance can stay locked until it's quite a lot warmer than 4 degrees. I will treat myself to Le Pain Quotidien. Birthdays are weird.