Hot Chips Sink Ships

I know I bang on occasionally about my alleged exercising ways, and it can become quite tedious for those drones who are bored enough to read my blog (um, no offence), but it has come to my attention that I haven't written about exorcism (we have previously established this amounts to the same thing) for at least a week, and this must be addressed forthwith.  

Sometimes at the gym I can simultaneously watch The Biggest Loser and Masterchef while doing my thang, and this must be fairly annoying for those who are addicted to food or those who are running from food (me in my twenties) or those who can't cook (sadly my present day status).  Technology can be a cruel mistress. 

Although, to be fair, toast is bread after it has been cooked.  Nigella knows all about this technique.  Do I get any brownie points for knowing who Nigella is?  And for being able to cook bread?  I like Nigella because she raids her fridge in the middle of the night for her show credits.  Kudos. 

With the strange, mysterious and hopefully permanent disappearance of the Psycho Cough last week, my body has reluctantly engaged in a bit of cardio this week, and my gym thing is going fairly well, with a new program with new equipment that has left some of my less used - and evidently most lazy - muscles thoroughly pissed off.  Not my problem.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner.



As some form of cruel punishment, my brain has done what brains have consistently done since time immemorial when they don't want to do something they feel is quite taxing and beneath them; it has planted a seed that involves me thinking and salivating about greasy hot chips for 90% of my day.  My brain is a vexacious little bitch, but she won't win.