Day 89: Butter Fingers

A bright and clear morning, with Alpine blue skies.  The icy cold has bleached the roads to grey, and my hands to bloodless bone-white.  I defrost in a Bloomsbury cafe with a friend who has better circulation and is able to catch the cup of coffee my numb butter fingers almost lose. 

Today's job is very short but very intense.  I need my wits about me.  All is good, everyone's very happy, but afterwards I am drained.  Sit on the train home like a lifeless zombie.  Try to read but am distracted by the woman next to me - a very executive fifty-something in a stuffy suit, having a prolonged and important-loud phone conversation with Alison about induction meetings, and copying people in and batting stuff up the priority tree.  Blah blah blah blah.  Turns out Sandra needs to be involved too, but she's on annual leave at the moment.  Blah blah blah.  Delighted to hear the conversation end with the booming words 'I'll arrange a three-way with Sandra'.  The man opposite freezes motionless for a couple of seconds.  I snigger and perk up slightly.   

A cold evening is an excuse for a baked potato.  Which, as we all know, is merely a vehicle for butter.  The good stuff - cold,  yellow, and salty (none of that unsalted, pale, cheesy nonsense).  And lots of it.   

Shameless.  But not as shameless as a three-way with Sandra.