Not the good scissors

If you grew up with a Mum like mine, you're probably familiar with the above phrase (I'm assuming it's not just an Australian thing...) In our house there were "good" scissors (roughly, the cooking scissors, mum's sewing scissors, the pinking shears). Any attempt to do something mundane like cut paper with the "good" scissors prompted an outraged maternal cry of "NOT THE GOOD SCISSORS". In later years, this prompted us to enquire where the evil scissors were (and I bet Joss Whedon could do a lot with that concept) but then we would resignedly hunt around in the scary junk drawer for the generic plastic handled scissors which were deemed acceptable for whatever we were proposing to cut.

Now that I own my own expensive cooking shears and sewing scissors, I can relate to the concept a little better and have always had a pair of "not the good scissors" in my own junk drawer.

Until this morning. When I went to find them so I could cut some wrapping paper and, well, this happened:



Which I guess makes them ex-scissors in anyone's book. So I now need a new pair of evil scissors. Which would make them newer than any of my other scissors and hence, potentially "good" scissors in their own right. Good-not-the-good-scissors is one of those circular concepts that might just lead to the universe exploding in a poof of exasperation and existential uncertainty. Leaving me with still no not-the-good scissors.

To make things even more confusing, on closer inspection, my ex-not-the-good-scissors appear to be an old pair of Wiltshire staysharps which suggests quite strongly that they started off life as a pair of Mum's actual "good" scissors. I seem to remember the Wiltshires being her sewing scissors of choice at one point. Oh how the poor scissors have fallen. A cautionary tale. Or perhaps a tale of valiant utensil service over the last twenty years or so. You decide : )...I have scissors to buy.

Changing

I've never liked porridge. Not sure why, but something about the gloopy texture always put me off as a kid. Give me cold cereal all the way. Or toast and vegemite. Or yoghurt mostly since I've been working.

But with the whole crazy diet and the waking up early comes eating breakfast at home and I've been getting sick of toast with cashew butter or natural yoghurt with fruit. So when I heard someone talking about making porridge with fruit, I thought to myself, self, that sounds like hot bircher muesli, kind of. You like bircher muesli. So this morning I made porridge then zapped some apple and cinnamon in the microwave so it was lightly cooked and combined the two with a spoon of yoghurt. And it wasn't too bad. Quite nice in fact on this cold morning. Definitely filling. I'm sure it will be even nicer when I can make it with milk (yes, I can have natural yoghurt but not milk, don't ask) not water and maybe, shock horror, add some honey or brown sugar.

Porridge. Huh, who knew?

Biking on down the highway

So. The pants, they eez less cranky. Not completely uncranky but improved. Maybe the endorphins have helped after all. Exercise is weird. I enjoy it, I enjoy the feeling after doing it and yet, over and over again, I have the mental battle with myself to get started. Sheesh. My inner athlete gets drowned out by my not so inner couch potato. My inner athlete needs assertiveness training. I've never been able to figure this out. But much like the writing at the moment, I am gritting my teeth and making like Nike. Except this morning when I woke up with the intention of a ride just after breakfast only to find it was 28 degrees already at 9am! Luckily it cooled down so I went at midday. Only to bike through four seasons in one day in true Melbourne fashion. But I did an hour and that's not so bad when I've only just started riding again. And my butt does not seem to be sore so far!

In other news, making like Nike is helping terribly much, writing wise. The muse still continues to have the attention span of a hummingbird with ADD and the ejector button on my writing chair (you didn't know that writing chairs had ejector buttons, did you) is working just fine. I've resorted to scribbling snippets in long hand so have no idea how much I've done but it's easier than sitting down in my chair only to find myself up and wandering after two point three minutes. Times like these you just have to keep trying and something will stick eventually and it will stop being so painful. I know this. I've been here before. I just have to, like with the exercise, keep reminding myself. I think something is getting closer. The muse is perking up her ears at strange songs on the radio and making me watch weird movies, so something is definitely brewing. I just hope it's cooked soon.

And now, I have to indulge my inner revhead and go and watch Top Gear. If someone could explain to me why I, who have very little interest in cars other than to occasionally think "pretty but why would you spend that much money on a car" and less than zero interest in car racing, find this show so entertaining, I would be grateful. Maybe I'm just strangely drawn to British men with a sense of humour. Either way, excuse me while I go watch a show about cars and driving fast and brake horsepower and other stuff that goes straight over my head.