Tuesday 5 February

I am feasting on bread – getting through up to half a loaf a day; I have turned into that lad at school, David Crouchbeck, who I once saw eat a whole loaf raw before my eyes (I at least am applying massive quantities of marmalade). As I recall we were visiting Martin Mere’s Wet, Wild and Willing Animal Park at the time and were meant to be feeding said bread to the ducks, the duck-billed platypus, the Plastascene-billed giant vibrating duck (something for the ladies) and the noxious gas-billed swan (our teacher shooting the last surviving example, punishment-by-proxy for Swann who had fallen victim to vagueness during his seventeen-times table). The envy I felt towards Crouchbeck, a simian-shaped boy, munching away without a care in the world has obviously stayed with me. Now, with my own pigeons turning their beaks up at my limping length of granary, I must question why I should add this soft, delicious, crusty, contrasting, infinitely versatile foodstuff to my long list of addictions. But there are worse ways to get your jollies: someone has vomited in the communal elevation machine – I smell trouble (and sick).

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