When Bloody Ern and I would return late on a Sunday evening from a fishing trip of two days or two weeks, he'd whip up porridge for dinner with lettuce and sugar for dessert. Ern would have a beer or five and he'd even let me have a cold Milo in a crystal tumbler. Those were heady days, my friend. Crazy times, if you see what I'm saying.
Tonight I don't feel like porridge, or Milo, but I've decided to institute my own Sunday night ritual: a glass of wine and a bowl of All Bran. If that isn't sending your body mixed messages, then I don't know what is.