As you have probably guessed, Valentine's day means little to me.
It wasn't always so.
What it does mean, however, is that the apartment will be quiet this evening.
When I get home I will fix myself a nice spot of tea and some buttered toast with marmalade. I'm looking forward to that - there's a lovely crackled plate for the toast, and a jar of thick cut marmalade.
Then I shall get in bed, with my tea and toast, and happily read a thick cookbook.
Food porn.
It is exceptionally nicely illustrated.
Tea, toast, book. A warm feather comforter.
Corner lamps, instead of the overhead.
It sets a mellower mood, you see.
Softer, and more indirect.
Later I will light up my pipe.
I may even twiddle my toes.
It will be a good evening.
If I had really been thinking ahead, I would've sent myself some roses at work. Not just to flabbergast my colleagues, but also because I like roses.
The chocolate I can do without.
I miss the flowers.
Tea. And toast.
Book. Pipe.
Warmth.
Light.
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A LACK OF PROPELLANT
Rereading my old posts reminds me that I used to be immoderate. And at times over the top. I've calmed down and grown up since then. Now...
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Ended up getting home at ten thirty.
Credit memoranda, commercial invoices from Hong Kong, cash application, wire transfer advisements to interpret.
Left the office shortly after ten.
Not entirely what one might describe as the best Valentine's Day ever.
I've even had better bad days.
Instead of tea and toast, I'm having "The Balvenie DoubleWood".
Matured in two distinct cask. Aged 12 years.
The second cask was an oak sherry cask, wich increased complexity, bringing FRUITY and honeyed depth to this single malt.
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