I am now a wandering waif without work or worries. Actually, the wandering bit's not really that accurate as I am currently plonked in the dippy missing slat bit on my bed. I guess that also kills the waif bit, as, slatless or not, I ultimately still do have a bed. Without work is dubious too, because, although I have demonstrated immense propensity for pouring liquid unemployment into my jug of hours and then drinking fully from it with a thirst only 6am wake ups and disobedient children can cause, I have just landed a 3rd cousin of the modern JOB. It is, however, quite far removed from what is usually presumed by those three letters, as I don't actually have any idea what to  expect. Back when I was contemplating my empty jug of hours, I sent a few mumbly application emails round to everything that involved words of some kind, and received a rather flat silence in return. I did, however, get one guy from a publishing house who said yes, gave me his number, and then never picked up. I let this slide as I figured a month of constant fiesta might not be too horrendous anyway, and was practicing how to say 'I am a worthless scrap of sloth' in French, until I discovered the very same Publishy Man Man lives ONE FLOOR ABOVE ME IN THE SAME BUILDING.
This is most likely a terrible thing, as our neighbours have called the police no fewer than three times in the past two months to mercilessly puncture our parties, and some of them have even started refusing to hold open doors for us in the corridor, so I figured it was a lost cause and perhaps even better to lie low, grow a moustache and emigrate as soon as possible. Fortunately, however, I was unable to grow a moustache despite much effort, and lying low became painful for my back after a while, so I returned to normal upright life a few days afterwards. After this revert to verticality, it took no less than 3 hours for me to be hunted down by Publishy Man Man, who had most likely also conducted letter box name stalking. I was in the window blotching ink on to the page (art, man, ART) and three seconds later I find myself agreeing about the terrible weather and promising to pop upstairs on Monday to his office. So that's what I'll be doing now then.
But enough about semi-jobs and more about fully completed triangles.
HANG ON before we properly start I've just noticed that the horrible nail varnish I was forced at gunpoint to apply on my thumb has scratched off and left a very accurate Gall-Peter's Projection map of the world. It's even got a to-scale Madagascar.
So anyway, food.

Due to the fact the only decent pan in our kitchen holds about nine million litres, I have taken to making vast quantities of soup and then burdening others with the task of helping me consume it all. I know Robert gave us soup too, so I'm going to rap mine to avoid repetition.

Get your veg from the market,
Super or basket,
It don't matter to me,
It's plain to see.

First get some ham,
Put it in the pan,
Cut up some bacon,
And turn the flame on.

Add lots of peas,
Do it with ease,
Just tip the packet sideways,
Let them fall free.

Now comes the cooking part,
Let it simmer gently,
Your heart will tell you when it's ready,
As will your mouth, incidentally.

Take it off the heat,
And perform the next feat,
By adding some mint,
Giving it a fresh hint.

Find your food processor,
I have to confess, er,
That mine is a bit broken,
From when I dropped it on the floor.

Whizz it all up bro,
Make it real smooth,
No lumps in sight yo,
We don't want to chew.

Find a suitable container,
Put it all inside,
Complain a bit about the size,
So give half to someone else to eat.

Someone else who is really talented at rapping is Fatal Bazooka. Fous Ta Cagoule is a piece of lyrical genius; 'Savoie-pas' being perhaps one of my favourite word plays eva. Yeah I am aware I am being exclusive and annoying by limiting the audience to Francophones or those competent in the art of google translate. Furthermore, the minty freshness of the soup can be compared to the ice of the Alps, which Fatal advises us all very wisely to protect ourselves against, as overexposure to anything brisk can be highly dangerous. Go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud_-AuBmp6Q to fully understand my subtle sarcasm woven with fine thread of honesty and pomp.

My chilly book of choice is another French one, sorry, but it's just so bloody APPROPRIATE I can't help it. Le Nuit des Temps by Barjavel starts in the North Pole among the nippy snow lands with some explorers who find some pretty cool shit. People put on cagoules quite frequently in the novel too, as they have clearly also listened to the sartorial preachings of Fatal, and at one point they almost find a chamber of temperature absolute zero, oooooh.
And now, here is a list of warm things to aid your endocrine system:

Coffee
Duvets*
Light bulbs that have been on for a while
Fur*
Slightly cooled lava
The inside of your mouth
Agas

*warming