Sunday, February 07, 2016

A 19th century explorer's breakfast

This morning I had free range eggs—from our yard destroying chickens—and lashings of bacon and toast, including one piece with honey as the dessert portion of breakfast.

Now I'm going to try and ride the exercise bike for an hour.

I imagined my breakfast was the sort of meal a late-19th century dilettante explorer would have had before setting out for the day, feasting greedily on protein for his exertion whose exploration was totally borne on the backs of the underpaid local labourers making that exploration—and breakfast—possible. There's probably one poor fucker whose only job—due to sheer dint of size—is to carry the gramophone.

It's an old wives tale that you can't swim for an hour after eating, but riding an exercise bike less than an hour after eating a first world feast can't be good either. But I keep having space outs—I awoke on a Sunday before 8 am and had to start reading to avoid one—and I'm in a high anxious state. I need to exercise so at least if I do have a space out the physicality of the exercise thwarts the physicality of anxiety—and drenched in a fear state is no way to be. 

So I set off on today's journey. We have many miles to cover before camp and legend tells of a jungle cat, which hunts at night, so fierce it fears fire nor bullet. I thank the Lord's providence for this hearty meal of eggs, bacon, toast and honey as my one hundred and nine bearers had their two spoonfuls of their local mush. After some Beethoven's Fifth and four shots of my brandy-laudanum mix I am ready to be carried aloft on my jungle pole chair. Off, Off!!

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