I'm oblivious to the jostling of the Saturday morning shoppers behind me as I ponder the kilo bag of flour. It sits there, uninspired, looking back at me. 4 dessert spoons is all I need to add to the empirical database of science, and my mind meanders to measures and ratios and skitters around the question of how many dessert spoons would make a kilo. The mathematical challenge is too much of a strain, and I surrender, adding it to my basket. Along with cocoa powder, butter, cooking chocolate and eggs. My spamming every contact in my address book failed to yield anything but ooohs and aaaahs and you must tell me if it works..... !
Ten minutes later, I'm ready to pick up the gauntlet and further the cause of science. the mettle of email forwards. A 5 minute mug cake. My biggest mug looks weepily inadequate, but I gird myself to a microwave cleaning and dutifully follow the instructions. Judiciously, I add an extra minute given the timing was for a 1000w microwave, and my jaw drops as I watch the chocolate coloured mass slink up like a sneaky sneak, threatening to spill over the side, but just hovering an inch and a half over the rim, swaying precariously. The message from my eyes clashes with the one from my brain to hit the stop button, but I eventually retrieve the mug....
Et Voilà! A solid if wobbly protuberance that quivers like a virgin when you poke it. (I just re-read the sentence, and have a great desire to alter it, but am stymied by the Freudian composition!). It shows no inclination to divorce itself from the mug, and my doctor smacking newborn approach yields not a squirm. So much for it being gooey on the inside. I trade gentle for persistent prising and am rewarded by a soft thud as it lands on the plate, a tad bent in the middle. Armed with strawberries, I attack it with a spoon, but soon am involved in a slightly more aggressive hand to spoon combat. Hmmmmm. That sound stays with me as I thoughtfully masticate the experiment with a strawberry. Hmmmmmmm. Round 2 at Sonia's yields better results, and I'm encouraged to consider round 3.... I still have 4 eggs left to go, and will use the butter on my toast. I'm definitely going to have to find something else to do with the flour....
5 minute chocolate mug cake
Ingredients
4 dessert spoons flour * 4 dessert spoons sugar * 2 dessert spoons cocoa powder * 1 egg * 3 dessert spoons milk * 3 dessert spoons melted butter * 3 dessert spoons chocolate chips * a splash of vanilla extract * a splash of alcohol du jour
Method
Find your biggest mug, and add all the dry ingredients and mix. Add the egg, and beat it into the mixture. Top up with the milk and melted butter and mix thoroughly. Add the chocolate chips, vanilla extract and booze. A final mix, and you're ready for the best bit.... Stick it in the microwave, and zap for 3 minutes (watch this space - I might revise downwards to as low as 2!!). Watch as it freakily rises and I think, stop when it seems to get to its pinnacle! Cool a bit before maneuvering onto a plate.
Ta da!! What a brilliant crafts project for 6 year olds :)
Nose to Tail eating,
is what they claim.... they lie.
I finally succumb to Mimi's exhortations and book a table at St. John's, Smithfield for our regular gastronomical binges. We're on at 6.30, as they are fully booked. This bodes well. Sadly, the evening has done little to alter my admittedly jaundiced view on British cuisine. This is meant to be classic and as the name suggests, not for the faint hearted. The hairs on my arm quiver with excitement at the sight of Duck hearts on toast on this evenings' bill of fare. It also explains why men are afraid of me despite my generally glamorous aura. Taks and I squabble as he vociferously vetoes my suggestion of two starters for me without sharing with him. The only thing we do agree on is that the menu has precious little nose to tail. Two visits from our waitress later a compromise (deeply grudgingly on my part), and dinner is:
My disappointment has nothing to do with Taks failing to pick up yet another waitress with his charm and less than coy wit (Italian this time), or the profusion of badly dressed people in the room. The duck hearts are uninspired and rubbery, making me fondly think of how unfortunate it was that a chicken only has one heart and how fortunate that no one, well, Mim, didn't like it nearly as much as I did growing up. The bone marrow is a sight to behold - four, huge, chunky gheelu haddis with a pile of sea salt and a pile of parsley. Sadly, as flavourful a gheelu haddi is, just topping it with salt and some silly leaves, isn't enough to entice one when one is used to decimating them from the bowels of a kosha mangshor jhol. Slathering this concoction over a piece of toast, does little to enhance the experience. The sweetbreads engender an echoing 'I've had better'.... which leaves us with the Chitterlings and dandelion. Crispyishly fried intestines with flora. Intriguing, different and rather delicious.
A spicy, and complicated Syrah (Domaine les Bruyeres) seems to improve the attractiveness quotient of the diners now joining us, but Taks is fixed on a pair of ugly shoes and I can't take my horrified gaze of a string of white plastic balls around a neck that inspires no lust. We squabble over dessert (this is when he really pours it over the waitress, inviting her to share....!!!) and the thought of Eccles cake with cheese is just beyond gross, and I assert my superior height over the man until he submits to an espresso which I sniff.
Moral of the story. The best things British are their sense of fair play and the greenery that abounds. Leave the food to the rest of the world.
I finally succumb to Mimi's exhortations and book a table at St. John's, Smithfield for our regular gastronomical binges. We're on at 6.30, as they are fully booked. This bodes well. Sadly, the evening has done little to alter my admittedly jaundiced view on British cuisine. This is meant to be classic and as the name suggests, not for the faint hearted. The hairs on my arm quiver with excitement at the sight of Duck hearts on toast on this evenings' bill of fare. It also explains why men are afraid of me despite my generally glamorous aura. Taks and I squabble as he vociferously vetoes my suggestion of two starters for me without sharing with him. The only thing we do agree on is that the menu has precious little nose to tail. Two visits from our waitress later a compromise (deeply grudgingly on my part), and dinner is:
Duck hearts on toast
Roast bone marrow & parsley salad
Lamb sweetbreads, peas and little gem
Chitterlings and dandelion
Greens on the side (against his religion)
Executive summary - British cuisine sounds better than it tastes; A Stinking bishop is a cheese (!!!); This must be the only restaurant in London that has a purely British clientele; Very, very few attractive people dine here; The greens are the best thing on the table. Along with the butter.My disappointment has nothing to do with Taks failing to pick up yet another waitress with his charm and less than coy wit (Italian this time), or the profusion of badly dressed people in the room. The duck hearts are uninspired and rubbery, making me fondly think of how unfortunate it was that a chicken only has one heart and how fortunate that no one, well, Mim, didn't like it nearly as much as I did growing up. The bone marrow is a sight to behold - four, huge, chunky gheelu haddis with a pile of sea salt and a pile of parsley. Sadly, as flavourful a gheelu haddi is, just topping it with salt and some silly leaves, isn't enough to entice one when one is used to decimating them from the bowels of a kosha mangshor jhol. Slathering this concoction over a piece of toast, does little to enhance the experience. The sweetbreads engender an echoing 'I've had better'.... which leaves us with the Chitterlings and dandelion. Crispyishly fried intestines with flora. Intriguing, different and rather delicious.
A spicy, and complicated Syrah (Domaine les Bruyeres) seems to improve the attractiveness quotient of the diners now joining us, but Taks is fixed on a pair of ugly shoes and I can't take my horrified gaze of a string of white plastic balls around a neck that inspires no lust. We squabble over dessert (this is when he really pours it over the waitress, inviting her to share....!!!) and the thought of Eccles cake with cheese is just beyond gross, and I assert my superior height over the man until he submits to an espresso which I sniff.
Moral of the story. The best things British are their sense of fair play and the greenery that abounds. Leave the food to the rest of the world.
If it's Thursday, it must be Amsterdam....
The rumbling thunder gives me hope....The rain, the perfect foil for hot toast, dripping with butter and a fragrant cup of tea, washes away the eye-rolling resignation of modern day travel.
The most annoying thing about terrorism is that it's set us back by a good 90 minutes. You need to get to the airports earlier to be poked, prodded and beeped at. Having to strip off belts, shoes, liquids, laptops and sundry is par for course, but having to then pad around barefooted while a scarf clad woman is fondled with the familiarity of an x rated film for 10 minutes makes you wish they'd just blow up the damn plane, and be done with it. Better than eyeballing the Millennium Dome for the sixth time as we grovel with airport control to get our wheels down, only then to packed off to a 'domestic' stand. I didn't fly in from the continent for all of 40 minutes only to be downgraded once on terra firma!
My resentment at being tagged a mere domestic abates as we take the 'short bus ride' to the terminal. I hear someone muttering remarks about the driver being lost, but I prefer to think we're being treated to the scenic route. My bonhomie evaporates an unexpected halt turns into a traffic jam on the tarmac, and we seem to make a u-turn.....!!! But then, the poignant sight of an obviously accidentally abandoned strolley makes my heart well (think abandoned orphan). We skirt around the forlorn sight, and I battle with laughter and guilt the tableau evokes.
A rumbling stomach, Immigration lines, a rather casual Heathrow Express, and picking the first carriage when I'm actually heading for the opposite exit turns my usually relaxing walk home into a pace setting endeavour... (I must be more suggestible than I thought.... one briefing at Schiphol on the Tour de France, and I'm a goner!). Still, it's only half eleven, Cala didn't die while I was away and I'm pleasantly dopey as I survey my muddy fingers with a great deal of satisfaction, as the truffle wilts in my mouth.
The most annoying thing about terrorism is that it's set us back by a good 90 minutes. You need to get to the airports earlier to be poked, prodded and beeped at. Having to strip off belts, shoes, liquids, laptops and sundry is par for course, but having to then pad around barefooted while a scarf clad woman is fondled with the familiarity of an x rated film for 10 minutes makes you wish they'd just blow up the damn plane, and be done with it. Better than eyeballing the Millennium Dome for the sixth time as we grovel with airport control to get our wheels down, only then to packed off to a 'domestic' stand. I didn't fly in from the continent for all of 40 minutes only to be downgraded once on terra firma!
My resentment at being tagged a mere domestic abates as we take the 'short bus ride' to the terminal. I hear someone muttering remarks about the driver being lost, but I prefer to think we're being treated to the scenic route. My bonhomie evaporates an unexpected halt turns into a traffic jam on the tarmac, and we seem to make a u-turn.....!!! But then, the poignant sight of an obviously accidentally abandoned strolley makes my heart well (think abandoned orphan). We skirt around the forlorn sight, and I battle with laughter and guilt the tableau evokes.
A rumbling stomach, Immigration lines, a rather casual Heathrow Express, and picking the first carriage when I'm actually heading for the opposite exit turns my usually relaxing walk home into a pace setting endeavour... (I must be more suggestible than I thought.... one briefing at Schiphol on the Tour de France, and I'm a goner!). Still, it's only half eleven, Cala didn't die while I was away and I'm pleasantly dopey as I survey my muddy fingers with a great deal of satisfaction, as the truffle wilts in my mouth.
Rhapsody in Blue
Herbie Hancock & Lang Lang, live at the Royal Albert Hall. I'm curious and even excited by the thought of what classical meets jazz might morph into.
But I'm distracted; My first time in the Choir section at the Royal Albert, and I'm reduced to an awestruck six year old as I gape at the vista of the interior in front of me (for the uninitiated, this is an almost circular venue, with events often stage in the arena in the middle, and a stage at the foot of this magnificent Gothic organ, and the choir effectively wraps around behind the actual stage...). The ginormous pipes of the organ are exhilarating fearsome and visions of hair jumping up like startled toupees occupy me for a bit. My attention fastens upon the unique perspective of the skeleton of the orchestra as I unsuccessfully squint to focus on the hieroglyphics on the sheet music arrayed in front of me. The languid filtering of the musicians thrills me, and the hairs on my neck quiver as I register the percussion section within spitting distance.... massive drum, triangle, gong... this must be what heaven looks like!
We're ready for the Maestro, and my body quivers as he bounds up to the applause, to then turn to directly face us! I have never, NEVER been to a performance where you actually saw the conductor in their full glory, and this beaming, curly haired, nattily dressed dynamo of energy and extravagant gestures was simply a treat! Brilliant!!! The stars were obviously aligned right, as what should have been a startling performance was insipid, allowing one's imagination to run riot. Always impressive, the proportions of the auditorium can only truly experienced from this angle, and I feel like Cary Grant (it does not bode well, that it's Cary and not Audrey I feel like..!!) as I survey the magnificence at my command. The perfect crime scene. So easy to discreetly 'dispose' off someone in plain sight, the orchestra the perfect cover for a stiletto (or maybe even a slim garrote), the balcony reluctantly supporting a limp body, blood melting into the lush red upholstery, invisible on a beautifully cut tuxedo.... the music cranking up the atmosphere.....Classic, sophisticated spy shenanigans. The divas take a backseat to the inexhaustible potential in front of me, and I lose myself in Mr. Grant.
The interval brings the snotty exit of Taks, pate with bagels and the realisation that the slats in the organ pipes remind me of postboxes. Apparently, I'm the only one who feels this way, and the suppressed grins at my vivid rendering of my Charade experience, and the totally unrestrained guffaws at my excited emphasis on the pivotal role of the triangle drives me to the acquisition of ice cream. The second half lifts the music, but even Lang Lang's exuberance can't compete with the conductors slices, punches and hold patterns. And then, finally, the Rhapsody in Blue that was a master class in the interpretation of what rhapsody is! The dominant divas carried aloft by an inspired orchestra to a colossal triumph.
Paisa vasooli?? The venue - Unquestionably. The performance - Unsatisfying. The trek back in the rain dressed as the summer queen (read strappy, insubstantial dress, flimsy embroidered flip flops, no umbrella and 14 kilos of shopping for a loved one) - shiveringly messy.
P.S. - Interesting that the page turners (ahem - proper pianist accessorise with professional page turners.....), were ethnically matching.... African American and Oriental. Curious, wot..
But I'm distracted; My first time in the Choir section at the Royal Albert, and I'm reduced to an awestruck six year old as I gape at the vista of the interior in front of me (for the uninitiated, this is an almost circular venue, with events often stage in the arena in the middle, and a stage at the foot of this magnificent Gothic organ, and the choir effectively wraps around behind the actual stage...). The ginormous pipes of the organ are exhilarating fearsome and visions of hair jumping up like startled toupees occupy me for a bit. My attention fastens upon the unique perspective of the skeleton of the orchestra as I unsuccessfully squint to focus on the hieroglyphics on the sheet music arrayed in front of me. The languid filtering of the musicians thrills me, and the hairs on my neck quiver as I register the percussion section within spitting distance.... massive drum, triangle, gong... this must be what heaven looks like!
We're ready for the Maestro, and my body quivers as he bounds up to the applause, to then turn to directly face us! I have never, NEVER been to a performance where you actually saw the conductor in their full glory, and this beaming, curly haired, nattily dressed dynamo of energy and extravagant gestures was simply a treat! Brilliant!!! The stars were obviously aligned right, as what should have been a startling performance was insipid, allowing one's imagination to run riot. Always impressive, the proportions of the auditorium can only truly experienced from this angle, and I feel like Cary Grant (it does not bode well, that it's Cary and not Audrey I feel like..!!) as I survey the magnificence at my command. The perfect crime scene. So easy to discreetly 'dispose' off someone in plain sight, the orchestra the perfect cover for a stiletto (or maybe even a slim garrote), the balcony reluctantly supporting a limp body, blood melting into the lush red upholstery, invisible on a beautifully cut tuxedo.... the music cranking up the atmosphere.....Classic, sophisticated spy shenanigans. The divas take a backseat to the inexhaustible potential in front of me, and I lose myself in Mr. Grant.
The interval brings the snotty exit of Taks, pate with bagels and the realisation that the slats in the organ pipes remind me of postboxes. Apparently, I'm the only one who feels this way, and the suppressed grins at my vivid rendering of my Charade experience, and the totally unrestrained guffaws at my excited emphasis on the pivotal role of the triangle drives me to the acquisition of ice cream. The second half lifts the music, but even Lang Lang's exuberance can't compete with the conductors slices, punches and hold patterns. And then, finally, the Rhapsody in Blue that was a master class in the interpretation of what rhapsody is! The dominant divas carried aloft by an inspired orchestra to a colossal triumph.
Paisa vasooli?? The venue - Unquestionably. The performance - Unsatisfying. The trek back in the rain dressed as the summer queen (read strappy, insubstantial dress, flimsy embroidered flip flops, no umbrella and 14 kilos of shopping for a loved one) - shiveringly messy.
P.S. - Interesting that the page turners (ahem - proper pianist accessorise with professional page turners.....), were ethnically matching.... African American and Oriental. Curious, wot..
Dear St. Anthony
I was eight when I discovered the intractable powers of St. Anthony, the patron saint of all things lost. Given that I seem to carry my own personal Bermuda Triangle in my aura, it is often that I have communed with the man. The paradox of being a heathen focusing all her energies into begging St. Anthony to intervene, immaterial. Strange, given that I usually get my Catholics to pray for me when in need, rather than be a hypocrite. I never told anyone ~(well, except BV - but given he's had to put up with my religious fervour at bedtime when it came time to shut off the light, it didn't seem to be as embarrassing a revelation) about this. But my faith in St. Anthony is unshakable. I never use him for futile searches. Only when it's a biggie, and he doesn't mind that I'm a bit scatty about lighting the candle.
Eight was a defining year. It gave me St. Anthony, vanished shoes and cardigan, and the knowledge (if not the realisation) that I have the innate ability of fuelling a frenzy. All it takes is a single shark and some blood and before you know it, it's a NatGeo moment. I think her name was Anita, and she had an incredible fear of big bugs. Vaitarna seem to breed big, fat, flying bugs in copious quantities, and they'd always seem to find their way to her person.... I'm not a huge bug fan, but 'nice' people are more apt to give me a coronary, yet I'd be the pesky eight year old yeowling that she's got a mother of a bug on her back, which would set the poor creature off (girl not bug), and we'd have a beam shattering seven minutes of screaming to get the bug off her back.
Totally unnecessary, yet somehow deeply fulfilling. A genetic predisposition towards a Drama queen in the making..... 31 years on, and a much delayed realisation, that it's my sheer lack of any restraint that leads to frequent frenzies occurring in the vicinity. So easy to quell with a little self command. But I am as much an alien fused B'Elana as I am that screaming eight year old. Life's just too short for restraints...... unless they're tied to the bed frame ;-).
Dear St. Anthony (ahem), thank you for helping me find myself again.
P. S. - Just to be clear, I didn't ask for the 'lost' vouchers to be found.
Eight was a defining year. It gave me St. Anthony, vanished shoes and cardigan, and the knowledge (if not the realisation) that I have the innate ability of fuelling a frenzy. All it takes is a single shark and some blood and before you know it, it's a NatGeo moment. I think her name was Anita, and she had an incredible fear of big bugs. Vaitarna seem to breed big, fat, flying bugs in copious quantities, and they'd always seem to find their way to her person.... I'm not a huge bug fan, but 'nice' people are more apt to give me a coronary, yet I'd be the pesky eight year old yeowling that she's got a mother of a bug on her back, which would set the poor creature off (girl not bug), and we'd have a beam shattering seven minutes of screaming to get the bug off her back.
Totally unnecessary, yet somehow deeply fulfilling. A genetic predisposition towards a Drama queen in the making..... 31 years on, and a much delayed realisation, that it's my sheer lack of any restraint that leads to frequent frenzies occurring in the vicinity. So easy to quell with a little self command. But I am as much an alien fused B'Elana as I am that screaming eight year old. Life's just too short for restraints...... unless they're tied to the bed frame ;-).
Dear St. Anthony (ahem), thank you for helping me find myself again.
P. S. - Just to be clear, I didn't ask for the 'lost' vouchers to be found.
I will not kill her... I will not kill her....
I will not kill her.... Deep breath. I love her. Ergo, I will not kill her. My fingers however seem to have mangled the shopping list in my hand. A sigh of frustration escapes me as I vainly try to smoothen it. 17 items of which I have amassed an unimpressive 3, that too, only with Emma's unflagging patience and eye for the right shelf! What I should be doing instead of whining on the blog is forging my way over to Kensington and pillaging the High Street for the remaining 11 (I have unconditionally surrendered on 3 of the items) un-necessities. She should have sent a bigger suitcase, and bribed the courier to do the shopping as well. Or maybe, I should have done that! Hindsight..... siiigh.... A shopping we will go... a shopping we will go, heigh high the merry-o, a shopping we will go... Waaaaah!! I want my mummy!
Hakuna Matata
No more worries for the rest of your days..... all very well for a garish meerkat and a flatulent warthog, but really, a lion does need more. Unimpressed by the movie, I reluctantly went for the West End production with 'ooohaaawammmaaawaaaay.. .in the jungle, the mighty jungle....' running through my head, only to deserve the pity observation at the end of the first tableaux, that for someone who didn't like musicals I seemed to be rather enjoying myself. What can I say. I have never, never been this blown away by a production. The story is still stupid, the music plah, the dialogues uninspiring and Simba, quite simply, a twat. But the production............... leaves you breathless.
The design team inspires awe in their ability to conjure up costumes and sets that reflect the fluidity of motion in the wild. Masks at the end of spine like overhangs above the head, a mix of own limbs and prosthetics, arched backs, swaying torsos, undulating necks; human and artificial blending together in such exquisite harmony, that it makes the phrase 'poetry in motion' seem trite. This was like watching the Savannah come alive, feeling the hair on the nape of your neck rise as the cheetah slinks her way through the front of the stage, the joy of watching the baby elephant hustle behind momma, the lanky giraffes, the menacing buzzards, the incoherent butterflies flitting, the twisted paradox of the hyenas, the birds roosting on the rhino. Without a doubt, the single most incredible visual unreality I have seen on stage. Watching the water hole shrink, made my throat parch with anxiety, even as the visualisation of the stampede upset my pulse.
Picturing it in my head, makes my senses leap as I wonder at the sheer genius of the innovative design, the fluidity of movement. But it does mean that the opening scene ruins you for what follows - well, perhaps I exaggerate.... but suffice to say, when that abysmal orange creature (who for some inexplicable reason is the only character that is a ventriloquists dummy!!!) shows up, boredom steps in, staved off only by the hair raising voice and presence of the strong, sultry and sensuous Nala (that's the tawt's girlfriend), Zaszu, Scar, the raging hyenas and the Magic Woman.
I have never seen anything this visually evocative or stunning on stage ever before. A gazillion times better than the film ever could be. Now if only it had been the Lioness Queen, we might have had a runaway winner....
The design team inspires awe in their ability to conjure up costumes and sets that reflect the fluidity of motion in the wild. Masks at the end of spine like overhangs above the head, a mix of own limbs and prosthetics, arched backs, swaying torsos, undulating necks; human and artificial blending together in such exquisite harmony, that it makes the phrase 'poetry in motion' seem trite. This was like watching the Savannah come alive, feeling the hair on the nape of your neck rise as the cheetah slinks her way through the front of the stage, the joy of watching the baby elephant hustle behind momma, the lanky giraffes, the menacing buzzards, the incoherent butterflies flitting, the twisted paradox of the hyenas, the birds roosting on the rhino. Without a doubt, the single most incredible visual unreality I have seen on stage. Watching the water hole shrink, made my throat parch with anxiety, even as the visualisation of the stampede upset my pulse.
Picturing it in my head, makes my senses leap as I wonder at the sheer genius of the innovative design, the fluidity of movement. But it does mean that the opening scene ruins you for what follows - well, perhaps I exaggerate.... but suffice to say, when that abysmal orange creature (who for some inexplicable reason is the only character that is a ventriloquists dummy!!!) shows up, boredom steps in, staved off only by the hair raising voice and presence of the strong, sultry and sensuous Nala (that's the tawt's girlfriend), Zaszu, Scar, the raging hyenas and the Magic Woman.
I have never seen anything this visually evocative or stunning on stage ever before. A gazillion times better than the film ever could be. Now if only it had been the Lioness Queen, we might have had a runaway winner....
Witch Hunting
"£50,000 per annum. Must be able to cackle and not be allergic to cats."
It occurs to me that I'm very much in the wrong game as I re-read the article. Why am I giving Guy grief about my frustrations at not being valued, when the job doesn't call for any cackling?? While I lack in several essential skills such as whistling and eyebrow raising, I am well renowned for my lack of any sort of allergies to feline creatures, and have been crossly shushed for inappropriate cackling often enough (although if I'm honest, I'd just be a sorry second to Priyé's natural talent). Still, a recession calls for some hard choices.
This could be a key career move - apparently according to the staff at Wookey Hole in Somerset, it's a straight forward role. Live in the cave, be a witch and do things witches do. "We are witch less at the moment so need to get the role filled as soon as possible". Apparently, ambitious witch varieties seeking a key career move are encouraged to show up dressed for work armed with an "essential with accoutrements". Perhaps the FDG, FGT and I should show up as a trio??
Naturally, political correctness gone mad cannot demand a woman for the job. That would be sexual discrimination unless documentary proof showing that the original witch was female can be procured. Most shortsighted of those people who insisted on using stakes. Nevertheless, interviews involving 'on-site' assessment of a range of 'standard tasks' will happen on 28th July at 1100.
Broomstick, check. Pointed hat, check. Wicked heels, check. Cackle, check. Black cat, check. Beaten cauldron, check. Gnarly fingers with shocking pink nails, check. Witch expression, check. Hissing invective, check. Funky spells, check. Proclivity towards the weird, check. That leaves me about a dozen days to work on my nose....... time to rustle up some newt tongues and bat blood. The hunt is on!
It occurs to me that I'm very much in the wrong game as I re-read the article. Why am I giving Guy grief about my frustrations at not being valued, when the job doesn't call for any cackling?? While I lack in several essential skills such as whistling and eyebrow raising, I am well renowned for my lack of any sort of allergies to feline creatures, and have been crossly shushed for inappropriate cackling often enough (although if I'm honest, I'd just be a sorry second to Priyé's natural talent). Still, a recession calls for some hard choices.
This could be a key career move - apparently according to the staff at Wookey Hole in Somerset, it's a straight forward role. Live in the cave, be a witch and do things witches do. "We are witch less at the moment so need to get the role filled as soon as possible". Apparently, ambitious witch varieties seeking a key career move are encouraged to show up dressed for work armed with an "essential with accoutrements". Perhaps the FDG, FGT and I should show up as a trio??
Naturally, political correctness gone mad cannot demand a woman for the job. That would be sexual discrimination unless documentary proof showing that the original witch was female can be procured. Most shortsighted of those people who insisted on using stakes. Nevertheless, interviews involving 'on-site' assessment of a range of 'standard tasks' will happen on 28th July at 1100.
Broomstick, check. Pointed hat, check. Wicked heels, check. Cackle, check. Black cat, check. Beaten cauldron, check. Gnarly fingers with shocking pink nails, check. Witch expression, check. Hissing invective, check. Funky spells, check. Proclivity towards the weird, check. That leaves me about a dozen days to work on my nose....... time to rustle up some newt tongues and bat blood. The hunt is on!
Return of the Lily
I beam like the parent, whose toddler has just spouted some gibberish that some sap gushingly interpreted as a declaration of Independence, as my eyes rest on the profusion of green on the dining table. A smug smile takes up permanent residence. 15 days and 12 hours, and the Calla's look positively prosperous. I have poked, prodded, watered, snipped, plucked and tweaked with the natural, nervous trepidation of she who kills plants. And yet, it lives....
My sense of awe starts to give way to a serene smugness, and the best part is, unlike my children, I don't have to worry about forgetting them somewhere!
My sense of awe starts to give way to a serene smugness, and the best part is, unlike my children, I don't have to worry about forgetting them somewhere!
Eureka!
While regretfully I can lay no claim to coming up with as ground breaking a principle as Archimedes'.... I do purport to lay claim on the very sound conclusion that water (both running and stagnant) heated to the correct temperature, against a human body has the unique effect of positively chamkoing the brain. Perhaps it's the gently wafting steam that subliminally stimulates the intellect to a degree of insight that is very conducive to a deeply satisfying 'aaaah' moment, otherwise known as the Eureka principle.
The truth isn't out there.... it's in the bathroom.
The truth isn't out there.... it's in the bathroom.
The scent...
...fills my nostrils as I breath, and steals my breath away. If I could bottle it, I'd be a Bond villain who would actually rule the world.
Given that we're only 2% off the 'animal' kingdom, it's astonishing that we forget how strong a stimulator scent is. Even more so, given how crap human eyesight is, in the whole scheme of things. I had this debate with the Dutchman about losing ones senses, and everyone seems so loath to let go of sight. While the fact that I'm as blind as the proverbial bat minus my spectacles does very strongly influence my decision, to me, it seems to be the easiest of my senses to give up. Shock, horror! Give up sight? And keep smell? Well, he doesn't have any to begin with, so point made. But I do. And I can't imagine not being able to sniff at things around me... the first rains, the scent of innocence on Avtu, clean sheets, freshly baked bread, the lingering scent of a lover, crab in ginger and spring onion, the sea....
I'd die if I couldn't listen to music. So, that's non negotiable. But the rest? Touch? Oh my. It would certainly be of great relief to the guards at all museums if that were true. But it would be like taking away a dimension. Contours, textures, temperatures, character. Hmmmmm. That's exactly it. Sight, just gives you a single dimension, but it's the sounds, smells, touch and taste that give it life. To talk of taste? A redundant activity on this blog, methinks.
But scent...... nothing poignantly brings back a memory like an unexpected aroma tantalisingly wafting itself around you, stirring forgotten memories, painting pictures in your head, contracting your heart. Yes, I will control the memories of humanity and the world will be mine!!! Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaa..............
Given that we're only 2% off the 'animal' kingdom, it's astonishing that we forget how strong a stimulator scent is. Even more so, given how crap human eyesight is, in the whole scheme of things. I had this debate with the Dutchman about losing ones senses, and everyone seems so loath to let go of sight. While the fact that I'm as blind as the proverbial bat minus my spectacles does very strongly influence my decision, to me, it seems to be the easiest of my senses to give up. Shock, horror! Give up sight? And keep smell? Well, he doesn't have any to begin with, so point made. But I do. And I can't imagine not being able to sniff at things around me... the first rains, the scent of innocence on Avtu, clean sheets, freshly baked bread, the lingering scent of a lover, crab in ginger and spring onion, the sea....
I'd die if I couldn't listen to music. So, that's non negotiable. But the rest? Touch? Oh my. It would certainly be of great relief to the guards at all museums if that were true. But it would be like taking away a dimension. Contours, textures, temperatures, character. Hmmmmm. That's exactly it. Sight, just gives you a single dimension, but it's the sounds, smells, touch and taste that give it life. To talk of taste? A redundant activity on this blog, methinks.
But scent...... nothing poignantly brings back a memory like an unexpected aroma tantalisingly wafting itself around you, stirring forgotten memories, painting pictures in your head, contracting your heart. Yes, I will control the memories of humanity and the world will be mine!!! Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaa..............
If it's Wednesday, it must be Dubrovnik
I find myself in an usual quandary..... my long held belief that the Indian High Commission in London was the epitome of visa hell has been rendered queasy by a visit to the Croats. To begin with, my first mission is aborted because Central European wisdom demands a later start to the day..... 11 am, and not the usual crack of dawn popular in non consonant dominated lands. But I will say, they are lovely people. Most gracious.
My second attempt looks dubious as I take my finger off the label marked Croatian Embassy for the third time. Is it a public holiday? I should have worn a hat. Should I throw stones at the window?? The creak of the opening door jolts my musings and I dash past the door opener into a hoard of Spanish (well, purveyors of the tongue and if you've ever heard 4 together, you will know that they ARE a horde!), apparently queuing for some event. We are re-directed inside where half a dozen people have settled. I feel disappointed that no token numbers are being passed around, but the apparent lack of any direction restores my faith and I start to wonder if they actually issue the visa while you wait at the window. We take turns keeping the chirpy, blond brat amused while Nanny gets her visa.
Some more people are let in after some stressed voices, and we aggressively defend our pole position as one of the newbies blithely walks up to the window, only to beat a deeply apologetic retreat. Blondie in front of me illustrates she doesn't dye by asking if they needed to see health insurance...!!! Finally I arrive at the window. The smile is still genuine and she even helpfully glues on my photo for me. Her charmingness allays any potential impatience her pace at scanning through the documents might have otherwise ignited, and I smile back. We even haggle on the price of a single entry visa but apparently their website lied, and they're rather literal on the multiple visa front (apparently one needs to have proof of all the multiple entries to aspire to such a visa). 'Now you have to go to the bank...', she smiles. My heart thuds - could she be right? My certainty at being able to cobble together the last £5 wavers... I'm wondering if I can negotiate a deferred payment of 64p, but she continues, '....and pay there'.
I beg your pardon??? 'I'm sorry, GO to the bank?' 'Yes, it's not far'. My usually strong comprehensive skills abandon me and I utilise a few moments just to gawk at her. She's saying something, but my brain is too busy trying to put syllables together. 'Are you saying I can't pay here?' Bravo Einstein. That's what I would have said, but she really is charming. 'No, you have to go to the bank. It's not far....'. She hands me a pay-in slip and a printed map. 'This is where we are and here is the bank. It's HSBC. You must pay there and then come back and give us the slip.' You have got to be fucking kidding me. Lack of vowels in the vocabulary obviously tweaks one's sense of humour in an unexpected fashion.
I capitulate, gather my loose change and depart for 'the bank', nearly falling over the picnic that has gathered outside the door. The sweltering heat makes the bank further than convivial, and the unhelpfully suited tosser just aggravates my already delicate equilibrium. 12 minutes of Britain's favourite pastime before the thumpa, thumpa, thumpa and I'm left with copy duplicate and triplicate. My stomach growls warningly at the little kid that ventures too close and I slither my way back clinging to the ribbons of shade. I return, and the picnic turns out to be other visa seekers..... the sweat scenically rolls down the side of my breast as I jab the buzzer for the third time, unimpressed at my celebrity status of being someone who's had the privilege of eyeballing the haloed interiors. I try not to let the class difference show as I make an attempt to amiably answer questions about the 'crowd' inside.
Someone else exits, and like before, this fool rushes in.... but the window is occupied. Blonde and equally charming boss lady smilingly offers to take the duplicate copy off me, with instructions to come back next Wednesday with the triplicate version. Same place, same time. Next week. I bet she says that to everybody....
My second attempt looks dubious as I take my finger off the label marked Croatian Embassy for the third time. Is it a public holiday? I should have worn a hat. Should I throw stones at the window?? The creak of the opening door jolts my musings and I dash past the door opener into a hoard of Spanish (well, purveyors of the tongue and if you've ever heard 4 together, you will know that they ARE a horde!), apparently queuing for some event. We are re-directed inside where half a dozen people have settled. I feel disappointed that no token numbers are being passed around, but the apparent lack of any direction restores my faith and I start to wonder if they actually issue the visa while you wait at the window. We take turns keeping the chirpy, blond brat amused while Nanny gets her visa.
Some more people are let in after some stressed voices, and we aggressively defend our pole position as one of the newbies blithely walks up to the window, only to beat a deeply apologetic retreat. Blondie in front of me illustrates she doesn't dye by asking if they needed to see health insurance...!!! Finally I arrive at the window. The smile is still genuine and she even helpfully glues on my photo for me. Her charmingness allays any potential impatience her pace at scanning through the documents might have otherwise ignited, and I smile back. We even haggle on the price of a single entry visa but apparently their website lied, and they're rather literal on the multiple visa front (apparently one needs to have proof of all the multiple entries to aspire to such a visa). 'Now you have to go to the bank...', she smiles. My heart thuds - could she be right? My certainty at being able to cobble together the last £5 wavers... I'm wondering if I can negotiate a deferred payment of 64p, but she continues, '....and pay there'.
I beg your pardon??? 'I'm sorry, GO to the bank?' 'Yes, it's not far'. My usually strong comprehensive skills abandon me and I utilise a few moments just to gawk at her. She's saying something, but my brain is too busy trying to put syllables together. 'Are you saying I can't pay here?' Bravo Einstein. That's what I would have said, but she really is charming. 'No, you have to go to the bank. It's not far....'. She hands me a pay-in slip and a printed map. 'This is where we are and here is the bank. It's HSBC. You must pay there and then come back and give us the slip.' You have got to be fucking kidding me. Lack of vowels in the vocabulary obviously tweaks one's sense of humour in an unexpected fashion.
I capitulate, gather my loose change and depart for 'the bank', nearly falling over the picnic that has gathered outside the door. The sweltering heat makes the bank further than convivial, and the unhelpfully suited tosser just aggravates my already delicate equilibrium. 12 minutes of Britain's favourite pastime before the thumpa, thumpa, thumpa and I'm left with copy duplicate and triplicate. My stomach growls warningly at the little kid that ventures too close and I slither my way back clinging to the ribbons of shade. I return, and the picnic turns out to be other visa seekers..... the sweat scenically rolls down the side of my breast as I jab the buzzer for the third time, unimpressed at my celebrity status of being someone who's had the privilege of eyeballing the haloed interiors. I try not to let the class difference show as I make an attempt to amiably answer questions about the 'crowd' inside.
Someone else exits, and like before, this fool rushes in.... but the window is occupied. Blonde and equally charming boss lady smilingly offers to take the duplicate copy off me, with instructions to come back next Wednesday with the triplicate version. Same place, same time. Next week. I bet she says that to everybody....
Come dine with me....
Joanne asked me today when I find the time for the blog.... or to put it another way, what else is it that I should be doing at ten past two this morning?? Hmmmm... let's ponder that awhile.
I find myself frowning over curiously splintered bhindi at my bhaji mandi, but don't let it deter me... this cannot bode well, but oddly, I'm in the mood to cook. I can even honestly say (well, mostly honestly) that the 15 page document in my backpack has nothing to do with this welling desire. I shop some more, and then am overwhelmed with the desire to unwind. Hard work this acquiring of cauliflower and whatnot. Eleven seems like a good round number to start a production.... Or two.
The kitchen is now spotless, the sink empty, the trash put out, the fridge bulging, the chef's fresh lemongrass and ginger scent vying with the garam masala that clings to the air.....
The strategy report. My body wants to reach for it, but my mind wavers (so not a bungee jumping phenomenon). I think the oxygen supply to my brain has diminished. Yes, that is it... I feel weak. Sustenance.... fetch food....
I find myself frowning over curiously splintered bhindi at my bhaji mandi, but don't let it deter me... this cannot bode well, but oddly, I'm in the mood to cook. I can even honestly say (well, mostly honestly) that the 15 page document in my backpack has nothing to do with this welling desire. I shop some more, and then am overwhelmed with the desire to unwind. Hard work this acquiring of cauliflower and whatnot. Eleven seems like a good round number to start a production.... Or two.
The kitchen is now spotless, the sink empty, the trash put out, the fridge bulging, the chef's fresh lemongrass and ginger scent vying with the garam masala that clings to the air.....
The strategy report. My body wants to reach for it, but my mind wavers (so not a bungee jumping phenomenon). I think the oxygen supply to my brain has diminished. Yes, that is it... I feel weak. Sustenance.... fetch food....
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