|All out of Apples|
Z or Dead
The winter's grinding along, and we're slowly running out our stocks of foods that don't grow in tins or fluff out of magical powders. Eggs are still on, but more and more of them are tasting a little less like eggs. I certainly won't make sugar mice out of them this late in the year, but for pastry or croissants that get shoved into an oven they're fine. And Sundays are helped along by beginning with a good honest fried egg.
The latest casualty of our ravenous stomachs, and the slow process of aging, was the last lot of apples. Ant had saved a few good looking ones and put them out this week as a little suprise. They tasted a little acidic, and weren't exactly crisp, in fact they were pretty limp, but they'd had no processing since being plucked from a South American tree, which made up for their slightly stewed state.
This little treat fitted into the middle of another week of night watch. This time of the year everyone gets very tired (as, perversly, there isn't all that much to do unless you go out and force yourself to be busy) and goes to bed at silly times like ten thirty, so it can get a little lonely clattering about the platform with only the occasional midnight cheese raider to keep me company. I amuse myself with bits of reading and writing, the odd film on the bigscreen, hiding balloons in people's boots ready for the morning, and a marathon of baking. The bread went down pretty well even though I made a couple of blue loaves to try to put people off.
Outside it's probably getting lighter, but I've been asleep all day, so I've no idea. I expect I'll be shocked to find I can see things without floodlights beaming from them. Inside we recently celebrated Mark and Andy's birthdays with an Elvis night, with Z or Dead again putting on a show of the King's greatest hits, while shamelessly dressing up in sequined jumpsuits.
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