My cup is full of steaming
I’m listening to the inner me,
I’m fighting waves on the raging sea,
and trying to get my sail alee.
I’m not where I’m supposed to be,
when listening to the inner me,
I do not want the raging sea,
I’d rather be here with my
Espen Øye Bjørkvold
It is Saturday morning: flexible hours that stretches beguiling into early afternoon without so much as a whisper, just another cup of
But somehow, lately
And so because I do not want to offend I drink what is made for me and anticipate the moment when I can enjoy my own
Today there has been a cup of Three Tulsi to lift my Saturday morning spirits. Two cups of water with honey and lemon to soothe a sore throat and a deeply satisfying cup of Lady Grey with the merest slither of rosemary shortbread cut from the round.
I am alone. Finley has taken his sick little self to Daddies and Richard has gone shopping for the kind of nonsensical cure-alls that merely anesthetize a rather extreme case of man-flu.
And so here I am. Drinking