I have porridge for breakfast. In my current predicament, I was too sick to eat anything until Sunday and then my kind husband made me porridge for breakfast. It was like cement. I asked him to put in more milk the next day (beggars can be choosers it turns out). Too milky, dammit. On the third day Michael took over. He was rather grumpy about the detail of my instructions. The porridge exploded in the microwave and he had to clean it up. He was even grumpier about that . He poured the remaining porridge into a bowl for me. He added chopped strawberries (“I know how to chop a strawberry!”) and left the leaves on (he does not know how to chop a strawberry). All that said, it was pretty good. This morning Daniel took up the baton. Daniel is an adventurous cook and always interested in new things. I was hopeful. This morning outside my door there was freshly squeezed orange juice in a jug (tick), a ramekin of maple syrup (tick, tick) and a beautifully presented bowl of porridge with raspberries on top (tick, tick, tick). However, was the porridge a bit on the hard side for your correspondent? It was.
Michael commented on hearing of the latest developments, “Only one can give you what you seek but the price is too high”.
Am I finding self-isolation a trial? I am.
As I write Mr. Waffle is picking up the Italian exchange student from the airport – Daniel revealed last night that Italian exchange’s grandfather, i.e. Mr. Waffle’s friend’s father was a very big cheese in the Italian legal world, perusal of Wikipedia confirms that this is true. In 30 years of Mr. Waffle’s friendship with this woman, this was never mentioned – this would not be true if she were from Cork.
Mr. Waffle and the boys tidied up the house in anticipation of the Italian’s arrival and made up a bed for him. Sadly the only duvet cover they could find was the one with the pink bunnies – a relic of an earlier time. Oh well. Lads, if the Italian exchange gets Covid, we’re all doomed.
