This morning somebody does a pre-dawn raid on our milk delivery. Two bottles of milk and two lots of juice are gone from outside our front door. We’ve had the odd bottle of juice pinched before but never the whole caboodle and all before 7am. Daughter will lynch whoever it was. She's been waiting for that orange juice all week. There’s been a chronic shortage of the stuff since her brother returned home from university the other week.
It's not often you see a man in a kilt at the bus stop. Perhaps someone told him it was Scottish kilt day and he didn’t realise it was April 1st.
No breakfast wars today. Protégé is in Norfolk at a customer of ours, so I hope he’s on the full English at his hotel. He’s also not expected to get back for our works’ meal out tonight. Of course he may just be craftily eschewing alcohol tonight, although if I’d spent two days at our Norfolk customer I’d be on the neat whiskies.
I ring Dairy Crest, who ask me to report our milk stealer to the police and get a crime number. I think the chap was upset when I laughed but I’m not going to bother going through all that rigmarole for the sake of a few quid. ‘Oh’ he said and then offered to send us out a replacement delivery this afternoon free of charge. Which is pretty good service actually.
Home seems to be the jumping place to be tonight. Daughter is cooking lasagne for a friend of hers and will be throwing L some scraps. She's also done Caesar salad and chocolate muffins. Hmmm. It all sounds a bit of a calorie nightmare to me, particularly with Daughter in control of the cheese. Makes me feel less guilty for being in the pub, where the Espresso Stout is going down really well. Caffeine is good for athletic performance you know.
We move on to the restaurant, La Dolce Vita, which is owned by Anoki, the Indian chain next door. It is however an Italian restaurant, so conveniently I can carbo load with lots of pasta, counting the 10k potential of every mouthful. Although actually there isn’t much pasta on the menu and not a pizza in sight. Which is kind of refreshing.
I choose what I think is the ideal race preparation. Tortellini for starter, which is pasta obviously and also good for athletic performance. Then raw meat for main, T bone steak. Which I ask for as rare as possible to keep me mean for my race on Sunday. Then tiramisu washed down with a Derby Brewery carbohydrate drink, which they have in bottles. Oh and a spot of wine, just to appear sociable as I try to get my managing director to drunkenly agree to taking on the race number vacated by L’s sister. Without success.
(Friday 1st April)