soft boiled

I'm having one of those weeks when my brain feels like a soft boiled egg. Every morning I wake up and feel as if I haven't slept at all. My usual two cups of coffee slip down but don't even shake the sleepiness and I find I've mislaid all signs of intelligence, having probably left them by the sink. I plod through the day, unsure if whether anything I do is correct, but crossing my fingers and smiling. By the time I get home I'm bedraggled and confused, I mutter to the cats and cross my fingers that the next morning I'll be myself once more.

I have decided that the cure for this soft boiled brain is gin and tonic and sunshine. There's nothing like lying back in the sun against soft green grass, with an iced gin and tonic. I'd like to be listening to Madeline Peyroux, feet tapping softly and sunglasses shielding the bright light. In the distance I would be able to smell trout cooking on the barbeque, with the promise of freshly picked strawberries and cream. Bliss. Oh for spring, oh for summer, oh for gin!