Saffron slut

I'd thought they'd closed the restaurant down - anyone with half a mind could have picked up all they needed to start another: plates, air con unit, table cloths...  Then an apronned employee appeared, cuckoo-clock-like, out of a doorway and added more to this pile while I avoided being run over, photographing it.  Did she shoo me away?  Did she hell.  Will think twice before eating there.

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Mind you, my own kitchen sluttiness knows no bounds.  Cat turned his nose up at 3-day old chicken in his bowl (and there's me thinking, 'treat').  The rest of the bird is becoming risotto as I write (reliable Delia again).  And finally a use for that tiny salt cellar spoon - it fits easily into the saffron bottle, and I'd assumed there was no 21st century use for it unless and until I developed a monstrous coke habit.

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I'm too new to this ipod game.  How do people manage not to dance?  Tom Jones on the way home tonight.

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Celebrating: an entire day on only two paracetomol.  Could have done with more on the tube, but I was out of water, and haven't yet mastered the art of swallowing those fat codeine tabs neat.

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Have just done a £15 deal (thank you, Beverley of North Finchley) for a 1972 Singer sewing machine.  

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And an illuminating afternoon in Soho, writing.  Sick of your own voice?  Try the third person.  Now why ever didn't I think of that before.  Liberating.