InsaneJournal

Orsino had decided by noon that he should just give up on the cooking thing entirely for the day.  Completing a successful meal was just not in his cards.  It had occurred to him that perhaps he'd done something to incur this misfortune, especially since he thought he was fairly decent in the kitchen.  No gourmet chef, and not as good or enthusiastic as Merton.  Still, he'd never been as much of a disaster as he felt today.  He'd left the message in his journal on a whim, half-jokingly (although the part about missing his bandmates was entirely true, and much more candid than usual), but as the sun began to set and the time for dinner rolled around, the idea seemed much better.

He apparated to the house in Ireland, arriving a few steps from the door and thinking that it looked much different in the waning light than it had last time he'd visited at full dark.  Wondering belatedly if he ought to have brought something, Orsino got his bearings and knocked.  Takeaway would be a very nice change from eating cereal all day.