everything is contextual

I am made very happy by the way in which pleasure in new experiences is an infinitely varied thing. We can go to the Roundhouse and spend vast amounts on upmarket ambience, attentive waiters and carefully-posed plates of nouvelle minimalism in delicate flavours, and have a marvellous time. Or we can go to the Whole Earth market this evening, and spend not a lot at all on cider from the tap; potato pancakes; giant Portuguese rolls filled with rare fillet steak, salad and mushroom sauce; and crêpes with hazelnut chocolate spread, all eaten from disposable plates while standing around using giant barrels as a table. The level of zesty enjoyment attendant upon the two evenings is exactly the same.

I love that market. It's filled with niche stalls: people who make only two or three things, but who do them very well, and with a rather bloody-minded attention to detail, quality and Seekrit Methods, and who are always cheerfully ready to chat about their particular art. I covet the crêpe-man's giant French griddles. Also, I scored creamy home-made fudge, extremely spicy chorizo, and a rather delectable ruby grapefruit marmalade. I like my marmalade sour, and this qualifies.

It's been a good day. I worked at home, and achieved a whole damned lot while taking an actually extremely needed break from the student angst levels and the continual interruptions. Continual interruptions are incredibly draining, you don't know how much until they stop.

I also bought and read the new Bujold. A Miles novel. Rather fun, and full of cryogenically frozen people and interesting socio-economic implications. Plus, bonus sphinx. But the ending made me cry.