Cheese and fleas and other awful domestic concerns.

I can't sleep.

After reading my book and browsing the internets for half an hour I couldn't get my eyelids to slip over the two orbs in my head. I might as well update. Let's see, what's going in my head at 2:30 in the morning?

We had some lovely cheese a few days ago.

The story goes like this: Lisa rented a car so we can get our cat to the vet. He was fine in the waiting room, but once he got out of his kennel (or, the vet pulling him out and Lisa sliding the kennel off the cat as though it were a sweater) he growled, hissed and bit anyone who dared to get too close. We found out that he is mostly likely asthmatic (science types have invented an asthma puffer for cats, which is way too easy to make fun of) and of course, a flea infestation. Lisa treated the little beast this evening. So, we had a car. This is a commodity we normally don't have access to, so we decided to pretend we were fabulously wealthy and shopped at Friends of Cheese. We picked up some Stilton, Guinness cheddar and the Red Dragon: a Welsh cheddar imbued with a liberal dose of mustard seeds, lending the cheese an intriguing peppery snap. There you go. Cheese. And, I picked up some creme fraiche and mixed it with a raspberry reduction, making a kind of fool - fruit and whipped cream tossed together like a salad.

All the things I mentioned a few posts ago, like meeting Iain and going out for breakfast with Margo, all happened according to plan. All that, and a healthy dose of Chris. A satisfying Friday night and Saturday. When Iain and I were escaping Richmond Friday night we stopped at a shop called the "Liquor Depot." With a name like that, we had to go in and buy booze. When we got to the counter, there was a couple of posters of guys who presumably lifted merchandise from the shop. One of the pictures, which was a dodgy looking guy wearing a white hoodie, had a name scrawled along the bottom: Johnny Blaze. Freakin' Ghost Rider lifted booze from the Liquor Depot.