Magic inky cuttlefish friends

Tonight (and this is kinda symbolic of my life, nowadays, in general) I cooked cuttlefish paella with ink and white wine (a typical Spanish ración meant for sharing round a big outdoor table with jugs of sangria) and ate it alone, in my bedroom, while listening to the rain and reading the New York Times website. I had invited a number of people to join me - starting with the housemate who eats seafood (busy), then moving on to my two single friends (busy / didn't answer), before realising that the only other person I could really ask at short notice was a vegetarian. But I'd defrosted the cuttlefish, so I cooked it anyway, and it was fantastic - black and gluggy and warming. I helped myself to seconds, then tupperwared the rest for work lunches.

Today: I wrote a long sentence about Humanitarian Access which may be partially (or even wholly) used as part of a UN resolution. And I missed her more than I told myself I would.