Day Three of the Addiction to French Toast.
There must be a knack for making it the way I remember it tasting from my childhood, but what that could be, I just don't know!
Wheatmeal bread slices dipped in a mixture of egg, milk, mustard, salt & pepper, and quickly fried, is the current situation. It's close. I am hopeful that substituting butter for the olive-spready margarine whatchamacallit gloop might bring it closer still.

Cats run in a cool way - that skittering run where they don't wish to seem undecorously "boundy"! Much like the stereotypical "hurried glide" of a nun, I think. (Perhaps nuns have cats strapped to their feet?)

The university here has decided that "an introduction to Old Icelandic" is one of the courses NOT on offer in 2005. Grumple! I guess I'd better keep soldiering on, on my own then.

"Cats & Feet for beginners" would be a more popular subject here than "Old Icelandic", alas. (New Zealand being on the other side of the world, really. Despite its name, and its own collection of geothermic wonders, New Zealanders and Old Icelandic make for an uncommon mixture at best. We do however, have a reasonable assortment of cats. )