When the previous tenants left this flat they sold me a futuristic-looking table-top oven, one of those halogen jobs. Except the timer dial was broken (I discovered afterwards). I've been meaning to stick it back together for some time. Digging around in the murdery cellar one night I discovered what I thought was a microwave but what turns out to be another little table-top oven. Also with a broken timer dial. I've now fixed them both so in theory I have all the oven a girl could wish for.
I wonder what the universe is telling me, with all these broken timer dials? That workmanship is universally shoddy? That I should never be let loose with superglue? (A piece of plastic I thought lost is stuck to my little finger). That time cannot be measured so just cook, damn it?
Who the fuck knows.
I am midway through my four day weekend and loving it. Being a bit of an introvert, nothing pleases me more than faddling about at home sorting things out. In my weird hermit head, people are something I can save for another day. In a concession to extroversion, I have arranged a date for tomorrow. Well I say date - it's coffee. We'll see if it's a date. I'd better remove the piece of plastic I suppose.