I'm having one of those moments of existentialist doubt. I'm at home, going to spend the evening writing. I think to myself "maybe I'll make a cup of coffee, as starting on the single malts this early isn't the best plan for writing coherent sentences".[0] I put six spoons of the dreaded instant into my mug, and open the cupboard.

There's no sugar there.

I'm in our flat, about to make a cup of coffee in my own mug, with my own spoon, and I can't find the fucking sugar. Since that moment, I've ransacked the kitchen several times. Always my efforts to find the small white cylinder containing the granulated crystals of delight has eluded me.

Having written this, one of two things is going to happen.

1. I am going to find the sugar in short order.

2. Jane is going to find the sugar as soon as she comes in, and it'll be in a place I've looked at least five million times.

I hate the way these things work, sometimes. It's enough to do my head in. Bah, I say. Bah. One last look, then I drink unsweetened.

EDIT: Jane found it, and I went without rather than consume unsweetened.

[0]: As opposed to the run-on monstrosities that I write most of the time.