  *Starts with a groan* Another bloody urlLink grill pan incident. Today, on opening the aforementioned, everything seemed to be in order. I popped my two slices of thick white upon the grillwire, tucked it neatly under the flame, and set about making my tea. But then... disaster striked (always so tempted to revamp irregular past participles, so bloody hell, I will)... when I turned the toast over, there were little lines of grease running the length of my bread, soaked up from the invisible pig fat that had been lying in wait for me.
And suddenly, I could hear the satisfying spit of secret bacon juices on the bottom of the tray, and the smell of it in my nostrils. Bastard. You can't go away for a weekend without a grillpan fiasco ready to pounce on you in the hellish first hour of monday morning (Tuesday, yes, but Mondayish still). Anyway, things have hardly got better since. I mean what self-respecting chirpy lady finds herself eagerly leafing through the last chapter of the Bell Jar before popping Jeff Buckley on the stereo to get dressed to? I feel like Becky Davies (although she had more Audrey Hepburn about her, in her day). I'm not trying to do the melancholic thing, and actually I'm rather upbeat. I think it's just the effect of going home and feeling adolescent again that makes me do it. Anyhow, the world is my personal plaything today, empty office, computer with internet all day. So all hail the joy of job applications, singing to myself and, should anyone be bored as me, receiving phone calls in the office. Long live Tuesday. 
