Somehow I've started playing MAFFiO and Sergent Garcia - I can see the way the day's going. Bread in the oven is smelling delicious. Get the pata negra a friend sent from the fridge, shave off a few translucent slices and put them on the bread. The buttery fat will melt through everything. Putting it back, take some of those green olives with parsley and the odd rocket leaf out from the drawer. No garlic today - I'm not in the mood for peeling and grating or drying the bread out and rubbing cut cloves over it.
Bread out. The silicone-coated baking mesh is a great invention - my bread is crisp underneath and the pata negra fat has run down into it. About half my coffee's gone. Is it half empty or half full? Answer - it contains half as much as it should do. There are a couple of creaks from the ceiling - it sounds like I'm not the only one awake any more. Shame: I like these warm mornings at home, especially when I worked the night before. After all, solitude is freedom. Take some olives, break them with the flat of a table knife and put them on the bread. It doesn't matter how they fall. Rocket on, a few lines of sherry vinegar and press it all together. Sofa, coffee, breakfast. That's Sunday morning, 10:53 a.m.