It's 11 pm, friday night. I am unlonely, listening to Adam Levine and going insane over his facial growth, with a warm mug of mushroom goodness. The whole stubble, white shirt, skinny jeans, clean cut hair will never tire me out. I haven't done much reading this holiday, instead I invested some time in the kitchen, making myself dirty and greasy with olive oil, anchovies, bellpepper, parsley, flour, cocoa powder and cream. I am promised 2 days of experiments each week because my dinner plumps people up. I want a cookie jar badly; for now I make do with an empty Marks and Spencers sauce bottle which looks really silly with a redeeming scumptilicious sticker slapped onto the bottle belly. I am a little frustrated because I think I will never have the time again to read War and Peace, the thickest book I have ever desired to challenge, and it always sits in the library, old fat and teasing.