Power outage on our side of Keppoch Street. This means no telly tonight, which is a catastrophe because Chris Morris’s Jam would be on. Before you even start to think Oh, how romantic, a chance to relax may I remind you that it also means no hot water, no shower (warm or cold), no radiator, no coffee, no refrigerator and no freezer. The last item will become a huge problem unless this is fixed soon, as most of our six-person household’s food is in there. I’m already looking forwards to the smell of rotten meat.

I’m using the laptop and a maximized xemacs window as a makeshift light source. Hopefully it’ll last long enough for me to do some reading, because the next option is using my cellular’s backlight, and that ain’t too good. Yay.

The laptop lasted for about an hour and a half last night, after which there was nothing to do. We post-post-modern people dread nothing like the lack of sensory stimuli, so I just went to bed at midnight.

It’ll be fixed in two hours, they said last night but of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t working this morning at 5AM when Sonja got up to work and it wasn’t working at 7AM when I woke up for some unexplainable reason. So I just took out my frozen pizza from the silent freezer, added some Danish blue cheese which was dying a quiet death in the warm fridge, cooked up the lot and ate it. And went back to bed.

When the alarm rang at 9.30AM, electricity was back but I was too tired to get up, so I missed the only showing of Rabbit Proof Fence. Shame, the movie seemed interesting enough.

Two things happened in the bathroom this morning. I was almost completely undressed when I realized by the way my bowel kept growling that I was going in for the big one. I started to get redressed to go downstairs to fetch some reading, before I realized that it had all the signs of obsessive compulsory paranoid schizoid whatever mental shortcoming. So in the end I didn’t.

Thing number two is that I’m quite sure I saw the letters HAL scribbled somewhere on our shower, and I swear to God that the bastard was trying to kill me. Boiling hot, then ice cold, then hot again, and I hadn’t even looked at the dial. Diabolical.

Spent the most of Sunday walking around the Bay looking for UCI Cinema. No, I didn’t dare ask anyone local for directions, and yes, I did find the place eventually, thank you very much.

But what was notable about the day was that I finally sampled the food at this Indian restaurant the name of which I can’t remember right now (I’ll ask someone else as soon as they wake up. UPDATE: Okay, the name is Kismet). Anyhow, it’s the one up City Street, number 100 and something. And here’s what’s so great about it: an eat all you can buffet for £2.5. Yes, only £2.5. I doubt there’s a better offer quality- or quantity-wise available around here.

So in I go, tired from several hours of walking. I ask the friendly waiter (for contrast see the slackers at WHSmith; last time one of them was staring into emptiness, while a second tried to chat up a third one) for a portion, was shown to my table and told that it’s self service. Okay, so I went to load up on the goodies and ohmygod, the food was perfect. Some chicken (with sauce), some potatoes (with sauce) and rice. I intentionally skipped the beans, though even they might’ve been edible in this gorgeous place. Having finished, I head back to the avian smorgasbord – twice.

By the time I got home about an hour later, I was bloated and had to spend the rest of the night burping. But what glorious, £2.5 Indian burps they were.

I’ve heard that Cardiff is rainy but this is just absurd. I just witnessed a ten second hail storm. In May. So sub-Magnolia.