Good Moaning

You stupid woman.[1]

Brilliant. Even now. Just brilliant.

OK, a while ago I said I’d answered some questions from real-life readers, but then I got slack, and then I got busy, and then my dog ate my blog post. Actually, it didn’t, but this was written in the days before I got the dog and I’ve just got round to typing it in, but here you go – my morning routine.

I wake up early because I don’t like rushing. I’d rather be tired and fed than rested, stressed and hungry. This morning one of the cats jumped on to the bed before I got up. I think they know I’m getting a dog, so I did this whole bit out loud:

“Yeah, Cliff, Willow and I have noticed there are dog pictures in the kitchen, and um, now there’s a crate with a cushion in it in the living room. Do you have five minutes now for a quick chat? Privately.”

Before anything, apart from my stupid comedy routines, I’ll pad down the hall to the shower. I won’t go into details of my various ablutions, but it’s your garden variety bloke stuff. But after my back is all nice and waxed, I like the sing a few arias. Verdi, Puccini – nothing fancy.

Nah, only joking. Ew. No really. You can say it. Ew. Except about the shower. I do wash.

I’m not vain but I’ll look after myself. I guess I could be defined as a metrosexual, which means I can have sex, but only in Zones 1 & 2.

Dressed and downstairs, I’ll put the kettle on and make breakfast – sometimes just for me, sometimes for the whole house. This morning it was for the whole house. We had bagels. Cream cheese, personally.

Drink. Drink? Drink. What’s the opposite of a creature of habit? That’s me anyway. I have lots of teas and I drink them all, depending on how the mood takes me. Regular tea, very strong with a dash of milk and a very small sugar, or good instant coffee black o sugar, camomile tea, gingko biloba, green tea with jasmine or redbush. Lately though, it’s either: coffee with dried chickory stirred in and milk and sugar (which I got hooked on living in New Orleans) or a slice of lemon in boiling water, which I’ve had every day for the last week.

While that’s on the go, I’ll make breakfast which is any of the following: weetabix (4), bagel and Philly cheese, fruit loaf with butter, regular toast and peanut butter but only with normal tea, or some muesli thing with seeds and shit, sometimes with milk, sometimes with yoghurt and honey, if I’ve had the time to make yoghurt.

I sit, eat and watch cartoons with the kids, flicking over to watch the news (BBC Interactive) for the headlines.

Daughter will sometimes ask: “Is that where you work, Daddy?” and when the cartoons come back on I might ask her if that’s where she goes to school.

Then I’ll pick up my stuff. My bag’s all ready from the night before and everything else is on the landing strip.

Oh – the landing strip – this is a small area, about eight by five inches – on my cigar box. I rarely smoke cigars these days, but I’ve got a box of fifty and I don’t want to throw them away. Also, the humidor was a present my dad got me in Miami and it’s beautiful.

The landing strip is an organised dumping ground for everything I need to hand except then it isn’t. So when I come home, it goes there – phone, wallet, spare change in a little silver dish and keys.

These are my Priority 1 Nicknacks. Priority 2 Nicknacks sit nearby and include library cards, pencils, guitar picks and such, but these do not get a place on the landing strip.

So when I head out the door, I get myself ready (bag already packed with work ID, notepad, ipod, book, magazine and snacks), put on a jacket and hat, and swing by the landing strip.

And that’s me, out the door. That’s how we doin’ it AM-wise. ‘thpeck, man. Yeah? Thorted.