London is back to its senses tonight, 13 degrees. Balmy, and right what this time of year can and should be. Sure, it's 17 in Lisbon now, and 2 in Bucharest, but if London keeps its cool, it's the best of all worlds within reach. I had a small revelation tonight, with emphasis on small. Then again, not that small that it's not worth making a note for a less fortunate day. Chris and I got quite serious about forgetting the milk, just minutes ago. The way things progress in a small business of greater ambitions, the Monday was quite full and quite successful, so any decent humanoid will agree forgetting the milk doesn't make the cut. But then it does, because it's also in the nature of things, at this point in time, to be less satisfactory and slower than we'd like them. Had we remembered the milk, another tick, the smallest, on the imaginary list would have tipped the balance ever so satisfactorily towards a job well done. And that's why I baked a cake this weekend, against all odds. Why we cook and serve the majority of our meals better than a 9 to 5 paper carrier. Why the milk is generally not forgotten but picked up with ease and wit between two meetings. Why there is a time to grow our own berries, form bonsais, transplant moss into a pot from the bricks it colours, and top it all with the tiniest ceramic rabbit. Because when you have a discipline of getting things done, they get done across the board.