Saturday Morning Before My First Beer

The Hammer woke me at seven sharp. The best thing about winter is my dog sleeping in a little. We keep her inside at night. When we fall asleep we know we are safe. The Hammer would go screwy on anybody making the mistake of trying to sneak into our house.

I let her out; tuned in the television to an English football match; brewed coffee; and put some steel cut oats onto the stove to simmer. The match of the day was Arsenal and Wigan. What a load of shit crap matches like that are. Arsenal and their gunnysacks of London money put hicks from the sticks Wigan under fire from the first whistle and never let their foot off their opponent's skinny neck all afternoon. Do not care for salary caps like the NHL's but I do not mind the comparative parity it seems to be producing. Teams like Wigan have all the chance of a man with his head locked in a guillotine against the likes of the motherfucking Gunners.

Sports often entertain but too often, like this morning, they are like going to church: boring as fuck. Suppose the 60,000 home fans went home feeling they had got value for their money.

Cooked the oats for 55 minutes. They were extra mushy. That is how Sonja likes them. I sweeten mine with Quebec's finest maple syrup; Sonja prefers light brown organic sugar.

Looks like the worst of winter may be behind us now. I am going out for some air.