Tuesday, 1 December 2009


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.

No comments: