My name is mud

When my old boss at work left four years ago for pastures new, we went into town for a farewell meal, booking ourselves into an Indian restaurant.  I wrote in my diary afterwards, "I had something like saag paneer.  It was nice, ostensibly a tomato based curry, but it looked like ground up spinach mixed with mud."

Today's thrown together curry looked about as appetising, to be honest.  I was loathe to throw away the last handful of spinach, which was by now as much liquid as solid but still managed to have that strange soily, gritty texture that all Lidl spinach seems to have, because I'm too lazy and/or cheap and/or bereft of storage space to buy a salad spinner.  The peppers and carrots were fine once I'd cut off the mouldy bits.  I've had worse dinners, but not many.  At least my rice was good.

But it kind of sums up the day.  Eight hours' sleep wasn't enough after yesterday's adventures.  I gave up at work quite early as I was simply too cold, too tired and, hurrah! – too headachey again.  So I DIYed in the fresh air until it got dark, and had an evening of classical music on the radio.