So that Dangerspouse , posted a recipe for yogurt - the easiest recipe on the planet - and it's been decades, whole fucking decades, since I made yoghurt, so I did. How can it be so nice? It was quite thin until I strained it, then it looked like this:



and I'd thought it would be good so I'd stewed up a bit of rhubarb earlier and had some with honey:



In a world as dirty as this there's a consolation to be found in real food, with ingredients that can be counted on the fingers of one hand - milk (that's all the yogurt is), rhubarb, honey. Not much consolation.

Thanks, Danger, for inspiring me. My modification to the recipe is to be less specific. Put some whole milk in a pan and heat it till when you put your little finger in you have to take it out at once. Let it cool down till it's just a bit warm, too warm but not cold. Take it off the heat and whisk in some yogurt. Put the lid on, wrap it all in a thick towel or blanket and leave it in the sun. Go back to bed. Read your book. Have a zizz. Moan about those cunts - I mean, Johnson, for fuck's fucking sake - he is Trump Minor, the Etonian version, so posh and really doesn't give a fuck because it'll be a cold day in hell before anything really has a negative impact on his family. So he's rude, wilfully ignorant, carelessly offensive, a person whose appointment throws into question the validity of ... well, of everything. By now your yogurt will have made itself, so long as you've been a few hours, don't know how many. You can eat it now, or drink it - it made me want to make lassi - or have someone make it for me, which wasn't going to happen so I had some on a bit of reheated chocolate pudding and then actually found the length of muslin I knew I had somewhere and put some in a sieve which I sat in a bowl, then poured the yogurt in, shoved it all in the fridge and went to my new psychiatric intervention, where I forgot to complain about all the personal details the last woman had got wrong. Then yoga, then to see ED who was sat in her wheelchair, head down, fast asleep, so I let her be and had a long chat with the manager, N, about all the different medical avenues that are being travelled. This is the NHS, in its dying days, still delivering, free at the point of use, but with hoops and delays and all that. You can't get to speak to anyone and hardly anyone has a receptionist or secretary, it's all about messages on answerphones Physio have been contacted but say the Doctor should make the referral, so a message has been left back at the Dr's. Physio will be able to sort out how to adjust the new wheelchair for ED's maximum comfort, what to do about the splints which make blisters, and they will make a schedule of exercise, some of which they will deliver on a weekly basis. Urology have been contacted about getting rid of the problematic catheter. The MS nurse has been contacted about whether - aw man it's nearly three am gonna go

grateful for: yoga: runner beans growing well from a strip pf young plants that cost a quid, chucked up against the fence, first pods starting to lengthen:



dunno what else, it's all shit really, moments of OK, like mentioned above, but holding on by the skin of my teeth, hard times, people, hard times.