Four (or three)

Once again I sit here bereft of words. I was thinking about having a bit of a rant about flying. A couple of weeks ago I returned from Barcelona in three hops instead of two, thanks to the inefficiencies of Swissair (obviously they were on cuckoo-clock timing rather than Omega that day). I could mention the yelling child, the unnecessary security checks, the cramped seats, the unexpected visit to Paris, etc, etc (and what a dump Charles De Gaulle Airport is), the fact I'd worked to four in the morning the night before. However, somewhat strangely, I'm not in the mood for whinging about air travel. That said, I'm off to Rotterdam on Sunday so the next flight might just tip the balance.

I was up at six this morning and it's now six in the evening; I'm not a morning person. I'll be working for another three or four hours yet, perhaps more. I'm only months short of my bus-pass and I should be into the pipe-and-slippers phase of my existence. My bonhomie will turn to malhomie. The slightest thing will make me scowl and mutter and my expansive view of the pleasures of life will contract into a tiny malodorous corner of my mind and fester away to itself. I will become a lesser person. And I'll eat.

See. I've just opened a bag of crisps (chips to you, Pauline). Do I need them? They are an upmarket brand. They're low-fat, low-salt, but they're also low-need. I'm eating them because I'm bored, underwhelmed and because I can.

There, just had another handful. What do they put in crisps to make them so moreish? And whatever it is, would it work in sprouts? Or cauliflower? Or chicken legs?

The image, by the way, could be a three or a four - your choice.

(I've just sealed up the remainder of the crisps. They're sitting on the desk in front of me. A strange, Satanic power is emanating from the seemingly innocent bag. Despite every force at my disposal, within the next thirty minutes I will reopen it. There is no power on earth that can resist the presence of crisps. It is the One Ring That BInds Them All. It is my burden, my Precious, and my stomach is Mount Doom.)