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Burnt pork ribs
I hope my readers realise that I've been trying to catch up on my daily confessions of a cyber chick ala Bon Journal. All I remember of Monday the 9th of August is the burnt pork ribs. Here's my story.
After two consecutive days of sunny barbeque parties, the sky turned grey and very wet. It was as if the hot sun had gotten tired of being on stage for weeks and wanted to retire back stage. The clouds brewed the pent up energy until the skies burst from frustration. That's how it felt today as I watched the sky twist and turn in bed.
In the evening I took out the barbequed cajun chicken drumsticks and garlic chillic pork ribs that didn't get eaten the day before. My friend cycled to my house during a break in the rain. She and I had been playing phone tag all week to arrange this meeting.
While she talked about her latest comings and goings, I tried to heat up the barbeque in the oven. It was hard to listen and cook at the same time.
In short, the pork ribs got burned to charcoal black.
Since taking my writing course in mid July, I've been wanting to write every single day. I could have turned this piece into something great, making an analogy between burnt pork ribs and burnt friendship or using flashback to recall how we met.
Finding the time to write has been so difficult that I've had to steal time to do so. I've had to wake up a little bit early for that early morning quiet. I've had to go to bed a bit later.
Now as I write this, I am sitting in an empty office minutes away from the exciting Friday night life of Piccadilly Circus, the only place in London where neon lights exist. Yes, I'm giving up a precious evening in Soho to update this journal. Am I not dedicated enough?
9 August 2004 Monday
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