Hummous

Hummous, hummous, hummous. Hummus, hummus, hummus. Houmousz, houmousz, houmousz.

Yes, my diet is less varied than the ways I can spell it.

Ah, beige, my favourite flavour. Sadly, there's a desert of pitta bread in Central. I suppose that's sort of apposite. But despite that appropriate absence, a man has to eat, so I've been buying random forms of bread and dipping them in hummus. And houmus. And humus.

That last one just tastes like dirt.

After eating all this ... chickpea-based foodstuff, I shambled off to the comedy club, where I avoided using any of my set for Friday, and just used some very, very old material about Wan Chai, argued with a man and then cleared off sharpish.

Well, not that sharpish. I hung around to watch the other acts, and while I was there I won a painting of a crucified cat. Which was nice. I wonder if our cat will cast this picture to the floor like the picture of my face. Or if the fear of being nailed to a cross will instil some good manners in our little darling.



Not that I want to crucify the cat.

We haven't got any nails...*

* I'm not saying I'm going to attempt amateur feline woodwork. I'm making a callback to that Stakhanovite piece of rabbit material. Once again. Oh yes.