I feel like a distraught heroine, falsely accused of cheating on her marriage and spitting on her mother in law by the love of her life, as I sweep through my wardrobe, emotionally yanking down a handful of wispy fabrics and piling them into my little bag. I pause, my dignity somewhat ruffled. I should have a suitcase. One that snaps shut. But I am a woman of the 21st century, so I shrug it off and count off the number of days. Seven. How fortuitous. I survey the colourful selection strewn over the bed... Eight. In as many minutes, I'm done. Dresses, bikinis, hide from colour changing cover-ups, fetching slippers. Oh. Hat. I wonder if the Hungarian will decline to recognise me at the airport if I exit with my floppy sunhat atop my freakishly small head. Hmmmm....
I've left a back up dress at work for when I come back next Thursday morning. Overkill? Naah. My heroines always have enough for a song dream sequence number. All that's left is the boring stuff. Now, or later? This naturally is pure rhetoric. I'll be demoted at Club Procrastination if I even contemplate working on Pila in Poland or Africa till I've done everything else imaginable. That might even include putting away the laundry. No, it's time to say good bye to Cala. Or maybe that can wait till after I've dealt with the tendrils of renewed hunger tugging at my wily nily, demanding attention. I should prioritise. There is no better muse than rolling dark hand made chocolate around your tongue, body heat beating it into submission. Mmmmmm. Sunblock. See, just the thought is inspirational. Oh! Check in. I can do that. Passport. Fetch. Toothbrush. Too much work. Food. Now.
Blondie in the house
I think I may actually have blonde roots. My cunning strategy of dropping my bag off at work before heading out for an 8 am meeting is not only just plain stupid, it's also impractical. Turns out the meetings not at the West End as I'd imagined it, but in the City. Also turns out, that my diet today has obviously addled my brain into believing I could actually make an 8 am meeting after having dropped my kit off in the office.
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Vanilla yogurt (really yummy!) minus any cereal, because the mental note I made to myself to buy some more as I finished off last of it got filed in that part of the brain that is pretending to be Khumbhakarna. A parade of seedless grapes ably supported by a large chunk of Port Salut keeps me going well into lunch time. Three bananas in succession tides me over till I make my escape to shop for fizzy fish for the Hungarian. So far, my plan for an early exit to go home, pamper, prep and pack for 31C has been a dismal failure.
I get home to the thrill of a new baccha in the family, and it manages to divert me for all of 30 minutes as we exult over the phone. Shania came home today and is apparently the most adorable 4 month old baby. I'm so excited with the news, I forget to eat. For all of those 30 minutes. I wonder if I'm so pleased because I now resemble a pregnant bovine, and it's infectious? My brows furrow at the thought of the packing I'll have to get done tonight, my spine shudders at the thought of the 8 am call, and my mouth systematically slurps up 14 dim sums. This is not a balanced diet. But I can fix that. Dark chocolate. 5 nos. in quick succession, just to round it off (no pun intended!!). I have decided. If anyone looks inquiringly below breast level, I shall benevolently pat my bump, '9 weeks now...'
I now contemplate making a list of items I should definitely not forget to take, including passport, laptop, suncream, all manner of chargers, laptop, gifts...... put away laundry, a stray synapse whispers at me, freeze the prawns unless you want to carry it for the Hungarian hisses another. My stomach tells me to ignore them, and opens up a far more lively debate; duck noodles or pancetta pasta? I've left the other half of my chunk of cheese in the fridge at work. Em sends me dial in numbers for 8 am, telling me not to worry. Undoubtedly impressed with the stunning job I've done of hiding my fundamental blonde state. I personally like to think that it was being a supremely efficient, multi tasking goddess at work, juggling 3 rfp's, a business case, covering for colleagues on holiday, figuring out service delivery in Zimbabwe, remembering to send uberboss mail on training, yelling at a parent each for wasting my time, clinically reviewing and organising funds before calming paternal nerves.....that has left me bereft of my natural brunette abilities.
Or, I could just be hungry.....
P.S. - Should I kill Cala now, or let her die a natural death while I'm away????
Wake up call!!!
COME AS YOU ARE......AS YOU WERE....AS I WANT YOU TO BEEE....
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
I grope for the phone even as the words 'I'm going to kill her' swirl through the fog in my brain... only to be greeted by a deep rumble, 'Hello..'. Uh-oh. This cannot bode well. My obviously sleep stained response brings forth a shocked, 'Why aren't you up already? Don't you have to go to work?'. A number of cells on the right hand of my brain struggle to co-ordinate limbs, limited ocular capability, lack of auditory stimulation from outside, and in less than 6 seconds, I'm able to rasp out, 'At 6 in the morning?!?!?!!'. '6? Isn't it 8 o'clock?'. I fumble again. 'NO. IT'S NOT!'. 'Oh, ok, go back to sleep then..'
It is now patently obvious that the little git has deliberately chosen a partner who shares the same congenital defect; a complete inability to comprehend and calculate the different time zones and my list of pros for moving back to India, just got longer. I have now had the same hours of sleep since Sunday, as the time zone that separates me, and a neck my hands would have wrapped around. IIM-B has a lot to answer for! Either that, or the boy has a peculiar desire to be on the receiving end of both Guha girls at their morning surliest. Still, they do teach them better manners than we were able to do with the little git, as a sheepish email apologises for calling at an ungodly hour.
He's a lovely boy and I like him. Next time, I'll take his head off.
Sugar Alert!!!!
Egad! We have a crisis on our hands.....the Beeb says America's running out of sugar!!! An urgently distressed letter dashed off the the US Agriculture Secretary, with the dire warning "our nation will virtually run out of sugar". Quelle horreur!! I feel faint. This cataclysmic claim comes from industry itself.... giants like Hershey's, Kraft Foods & General Mills. My wrists move involuntarily, and within seconds, I have a major hand wringing concerto. Oh no! What are we to do?? What ARE we to do??!! This crisis could potential render a sharp blow to obesity figures in North America. Gasp! They might even lose their top ranking in the world's fattest nation states. Businesses will be crippled, people left bereft, the financial sector in even more turmoil if the manufacturers have to pay import tariffs on sugar....
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
But hark! What is this I read? Jack Roney, Director of the ASA (American Sugar Alliance!! tan ta daan...) insisting "There's absolutely no shortage of sugar here", backing the claim of the US Agriculture department that domestic sugar production were now increasing. My wrists see a respite. It's the stealthy caped crusader, SugarcaneMan!! Hurrah! We've been saved!! Delivered from that gut wrenching evil, sugar free, healthy diet!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/8200515.stm
Now that we've narrowly averted a calamity on par with the one loosely referred to as global warming, I shall return to focusing my energies on the pandemic that is human stupidity, making itself felt most particularly in Pune and Mumbai over that openly arrogant killer, swine flu. 27 lives in a population of 1 billion. Unacceptable!! Just because the UK loses 6,000 odd to regular influenza every year is hardly consolation. After all, we did gain independence from the crown this day 62 years ago. We shall throw sense to the four winds (Jayal and I agreed yesterday that common sense is a fallacy. A myth. No such thing. Figment of one's imagination. What she and I possess in abundance is uncommon sense), and shut down schools, public entertainment and boost the EBITA for mask manufacturers and pharma companies. Time to beat the recession.
Moral of the story: If ten thousand people say a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing.
Toorai Tarkari
is apparently what Jan made. For the uninitiated, online that would be badly translated into courgette curry. Suffice to say, it is more torkari than curry.... and it's what I believe my organically grown, hand picked, hand washed, individually transported courgette deserves. The absence of Bengal gram flour (ahem, besan..) from my prodigiously lacking kitchen might have had some influence on this decision. Nevertheless, the torkari was a resounding success and as I'm feeling benevolent, I shall provide both recipes tout suite.
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Method:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Toorai Tarkari (Courgette Curry)
Ingredients:
250 gm courgettes (sliced into rounds) * 400 gm tomatoes (chopped) * 1 tsp jeera seeds (cumin) * 1 tsp dhania powder (coriander) * ¼ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 green chilli (chopped) * 1 sprig coriander leaves (chopped) * salt to taste * oilMethod:
Heat oil and add the jeera seeds. When they splutter, add the courgettes and toss around. Sprinkle the haldi, dhania and chilli powders and mix well. Add the tomatoes, salt, green chilli and mix well. Cook for a couple of minutes till courgettes are crunchy but not raw, chuck in the fresh coriander, stir, and violà!
Courgette Bhaja
Ingredients:
3 courgettes * 3 tbsp besan * ½ tsp haldi * ½ tsp chilli powder * 1 tsp jeera powder (cumin) * 1 tsp cumin seeds * 1 tsp ajwain (carom seeds) * oil * salt to taste
Method:
Wash courgettes and pat dry. Cut into quarters lengthwise and then dice into 1" pieces. In a large bowl, mix the besan, haldi, jeera and chilli powders, sale and courgettes. Make sure the pieces are well coated. Keep aside.
Heat oil in a deep pan. When hot, add the jeera and ajwain seeds. Once they stop spluttering, add the courgette, and stir fry till done.
Eating this seriously reminds one of Calcutta!
Incident at Iris
My delicate sensibilities are overwhelmed, appalled at the depravity of human nature. It's as though crime within the peaceful community of Melton/Welton was mere antipasti to the dark morass of prima patti to follow, shards of shocking behaviour cutting through the fringes of my civilised existence as a drama queen par excellence.
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
My parents are harbouring a fugitive, with a degree of unconcern to render those this side of the Suez wide eyed with horror. The renegade in question; Amit. Pint sized, deeply aggressive, with a cannibalistic edge to his small man syndrome. Their chauffeur. The Managing Committee of Iris co-operative housing society has decreed that they 'except you to release this troublemaker or we will be constrained to ban his entry'. Undaunted, Minu the Brave haggles as is her mettle, and cowers them into a months' suspension.
I demand details, putting aside my primness and am rewarded with the elucidation that apparently, Amit bit the alleged victim. Twice. Riiiight! The letter from the society is even more revealing. The offender, showed up on his day off, drunk, and proceeded without any mercy or provocation to attack the driver of flat 46 (Central Bank of India). Mr. Lallan, the lift man, foolishly intervened and was duly bitten on the calves (?!!?) and fingers for his peacekeeping efforts. Amit the Small, remained unimpressed by the presence of two committee members, and continued on his drunken rampage, showing a marked lack of respect for the fine gentlemen. Lallan, who by now was rumoured to be bleeding profusely, needed medical attention. My parents have been asked in no uncertain terms to compensate for the medical expenses incurred with the strong admonishment, "We are hopeful that you will comply gracefully".
My mother is not a graceful woman. The indefatigable one is not one to rest on her laurels, and ensnares Mimi as a willing cohort to try and further circumvent the society's directives. The rascal can report to Persepolis for the missing month. But wait, the car is still at Iris, and given his persona non grata status for 30 days, my mother would then have to manhandle the car outside the hallowed precincts before Amit the Small could take cover. Unsound. Perhaps they could swap cars, and then she'd only have to walk as far as the building gate and have him pick her up? Uh oh.... I feel myself drawn into this criminal quagmire, the dark side calls to me... Maaaa! Wait for me....
P.S. - penned notes on the complaint letter; Your driver has got a very bad background, he has no family.....
Pity we don't have that as a fallback excuse :p
The devil is in the dementia
Despite a rousing first breakfast at 1 am, the blackberry reads 08:54. Not too shabby for a Friday morning, and I feel rather pleased as I hit delete with abandon. Hmmmm, BA seems overly keen to remind me of my impending holiday...then my brain does a double take, and my eyes focus on a pre-flight check email for a potential adventure to Dubrovnik. All my vital signs screech to a halt for a split second.
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Shit!! Shit Shit!!! Pure panic takes over and breathing becomes difficult as my synapses frantically snap back to memories of booking a flight to get the visa. A flight that could be cancelled. A flight that would cause the same mayhem to my finances, had I to pay ransom to retrieve my firstborn, from the clutches of baby traffickers. A flight I forgot to cancel after a triumphant return from the Croat embassy. My stomach makes intimate acquaintance with the contents of my upper chest cavity, as my mind shifts gear to self defense; I'm sure I can still cancel it. Worst case, I'll lose some of it....It's only money..... I'm so fucked.....
I don't even pretend to work as I calmly boot up the laptop. Manage my bookings. Cancel booking. Card details. £££. Email address. The screen flashes back at me.... email confirmation will be sent to the address provided. The blackberry fails to beep reassuringly, and my vital signs remain distressed. Bzzzzzzz!!! Has been cancelled. Fare refund. Miracle of miracles!! Less charges/administration fees: GBP 0.00. Tax refund. Total refund. YES!!! Total refund! Friday's lookin' good :-).
Die Another Day
8 weeks tomorrow. That's how old Cala will be when her life is snuffed out forever.... I just can't take it anymore. Another yellow leaf, the constant checking for dampness, the pruning, the watering. Surely 8 weeks is a long and happy life? Euthanasia. The word rattles around in my head like a wayward marble. Another marble with horns makes an appearance and hisses, Murder. You say potato, I say potato! I'll bet Cala is begging to go to a better place. I know I'm ready to say goodbye....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
I'm looking at her as I type this, and she looks back at me thirstily, bright, green leaves outnumber fading, yellow ones 7:1. Dammit! I pour. One for her, one for me. Guess we'll just have to go the shaken not stirred route....
Just words
Etymology. Different from Entomology. Precise, wavering, tentative, strange.... words were all I had. Bold, vivid and so alive. Like a touch, a whisper, the feel of a smile. A hazy watercolour shimmering in front of you, taking you there. Like a toasty blanket wrapped around you, as you listen to them again in your head, making you smile, filling you.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Then, on the flutter of a butterfly's wings, it turns into a mirage. The beautiful words, just so much dust in your mouth. Uni-dimensional marks on a page, like an empty gesture. Looking without seeing. Soulless. Empty. Just words.
Just you wait 'enry 'iggins...!
My mirth at having to leap across rivulets, completely abandoning my elegant ensemble in a balance umbrella, hitch up expensive trousers and don't land in the middle of that humongous water body, dance (10 min of monsoon is all it takes to create mayhem in central London), gives way to gross indignation at the realisation that my boots have sprung a leak! Indignation is quickly replaced by good karma as the absurd queue ahead of us dissolves and we're led to a table, with seats on the edge. My relief at not being wedged between other damp diners is short lived, as the woman next to us opens her mouth.....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
If Henry Higgins were to have stepped up to the plate to attempt to shepard that pitch into something close to human resonance, he would be a better man than I. My heart thumps in tandem with baseline of the house rhythm pumping through the restaurant, yet all I hear is that shrill voice, piercing through my head, bringing all coherent thought to a grinding halt. The Dutchman grins at the look on my face. I try and re-arrange it into a semblance of less than a horrified gape. Unsuccessfully. Like a train wreck, my eyes are drawn in the direction of that inhuman sound, and I see her lips move to form what I presume are words, but all I hear is that noise. A stabbing tone sans pitch or modulation, stridently enthusiastic, and utterly mind numbing. I feel my brain shut down, and despite my best intentions, continue to wince at the unexpectedly brutal auditory assault.
As my mind grapples with the weighty issue of whether I'd be subject to this or nails down a blackboard, my body finds it's own defense. Sealing off the ear closest to her, makes my own voice echo inside my head in rather a pleasing manner, an eccentric counterpoint to the nightclub sound that reverberates through the room. It is however, gastronomically challenging to consume scallops (stunted, mingy and overcooked - if that's what the queen looks like, I'd hate to see her subjects! Seafood in this country is best given a wide berth!! Oh - Randall & Aubin in case you were wondering), and I gulp my wine instead. I'm dumbfounded that her companion fails to hear anything amiss and actually seems to encourage the use of those vocal cords. I wonder if he wakes up to that tone in the morning. Moot point. Any more than a handful of sentences, and I'd be shouting justifiable homicide as they came to take me away.... I wonder if I can file an Asbo,., but my synapses have already gone on strike.
I manage to catch the, 'You're unusually quiet' and aim for a Mona Lisa smile. Little does he know,
In your heeeaaaaad... in your heeeeeaaaaaad.... zombie, zombie... eh ehe eh...
in you HEAAAAD....
Farewell my FGT
Misty eyed, we hug each other ferociously, the crowd milling around us at the entrance to Bond Street station, doubtlessly annoyed by the detour caused by our sentimentality. The Feckless German Traitor en route to her last hair cut in London for a couple of years, puffs on her third cigarette in as many minutes. I still can't believe that come Monday, she won't be in at work, depleting my Brazil nuts with impunity. The Friggin' Domestic Goddess had better bring in cake when she's back from holiday... but then again, it won't be nearly as much not to be able to bitch about the psycho FDG without the FGT.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
This is the best and worst of this city. Those you meet. Unlikely cultures, shared laughter, strange cohorts; a fondness that grows like an insidious fungus. Those that you will miss most are the ones you will have to say goodbye to soonest....
I'm going to miss her.
Credit crunch lunch
It is fairly apparent that the markets are now well on their way to recovery. The deeply conservative basement that serves as Le Gavroche's dining room is packed on a Tuesday lunch time, and Taks and I manage to bring the average age down to 50.
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
His calamari risotto is a lie worthy of Michael Caine in Alfie... charming, disarming and begging to be believed.... the most deliciously roasted calamari sat atop a bed of squid ink drenched orzo. Sumptuous. My hot foie gras with duck pancake flavoured with a cinnamon touched reduction is perfectly offset by an unexpected sweet red wine, which is now a distant memory...... Michel Roux comes around to ask how the meal was, and my erstwhile ever pompous companion goes on about the sugar he can taste in the souffle.....!
The conversation takes a turn for the S&M, and I am prepared to swear the white haired lady directly in my line of sight is a dominatrix of the extreme kind, with the basement in her manor strewn with wicked implements of torture. Taks refuses to admit that the octogenarian might actually look fetching in leather, but does accept she probably knows how to wield a riding crop like few others.... but I have to concur with his assessment that this really isn't a very good place to pick up chicks.
Two and a half hours later, I am replete, bordering on the very 'I feel sick', and Nana and her friends are looking more and more appealing to my companion....Check please!
Countryside Caper: Raise Shed; episode 2
Fortified by a night of Sharukh Khan (the man's growing on me... like a fungus!) wine, courgette and pnpc, Vinod and I make tracks for the summer house where plan B awaits; ignore next instructions in diagram book, and attack the door. We've got all the parts accounted for, but the sheet that pretends to be the door is missing some critical holes. Daal mein definitely khuch kaala hain! The vapid instruction book fails to show any illuminating pictures of a powerdrill at this stage, but much manhandling later, we come to the inescapable conclusion that several holes are going to have to be drilled before the horizontal patra turns from coyly swaying hula skirt to defendable door. Damn!
Back to Plan A 6.545. The sun mocks down on us, a day too late, as we hammer and screw into place the rest of the walls (!). Right. It's time for the damned roof. Logic gives way to lateral thinking, and we poke, prod, shove, bend, manipulate and swear..... all in vain. The Aussies have fucked up. It's either getting the middle right, or the ends. We interupt the session for some more ice-cream and the drafting of a strongly worded letter of complaint to Treco for their appalling kit. Plan A 16.794 and we're laying the last of the patra overhead, and I wave forlornly as both Vinod and the sun disappear from view, and I'm left to screw on the last of the bolts. But wait! Down under strikes again, and now we have a sunroof!! One overlap too many with no place to screw it down. How difficult can it be for a manufacturer of sheds to punch holes in the right places and cut tin to the right sizes???? Manufactured in Germany in strict conformity to Australian standards... GAH! This is what happens when you give a bunch of prisoners the right to vote.
Right. We have a lean to. With a sunroof and minus a door, and holes that have to be blocked.... but hey! It's a lean to! Imported city girl cheap menial labour has done as much as she can do, and is rewarded by a tour of the Doctor's SERIOUS power tools (petrol/diesel run).... and a promise to let her wield them à la Jason (or was it Freddie??) on the hedges in the not so distant future. God, this man is just so hot! Hefting the chainsaw makes me forget the crick in my neck, the stabbing protest of the muscles in my lower back and the pained begging of mercy of my knees, and I'm all smiles over the farewell cup of tea and chocolate biscuits. Jan pithily points out the the summer house has an extension, while the main house is still languishing, waiting for 2010 to roll around... such is life.
Back to Plan A 6.545. The sun mocks down on us, a day too late, as we hammer and screw into place the rest of the walls (!). Right. It's time for the damned roof. Logic gives way to lateral thinking, and we poke, prod, shove, bend, manipulate and swear..... all in vain. The Aussies have fucked up. It's either getting the middle right, or the ends. We interupt the session for some more ice-cream and the drafting of a strongly worded letter of complaint to Treco for their appalling kit. Plan A 16.794 and we're laying the last of the patra overhead, and I wave forlornly as both Vinod and the sun disappear from view, and I'm left to screw on the last of the bolts. But wait! Down under strikes again, and now we have a sunroof!! One overlap too many with no place to screw it down. How difficult can it be for a manufacturer of sheds to punch holes in the right places and cut tin to the right sizes???? Manufactured in Germany in strict conformity to Australian standards... GAH! This is what happens when you give a bunch of prisoners the right to vote.
Right. We have a lean to. With a sunroof and minus a door, and holes that have to be blocked.... but hey! It's a lean to! Imported city girl cheap menial labour has done as much as she can do, and is rewarded by a tour of the Doctor's SERIOUS power tools (petrol/diesel run).... and a promise to let her wield them à la Jason (or was it Freddie??) on the hedges in the not so distant future. God, this man is just so hot! Hefting the chainsaw makes me forget the crick in my neck, the stabbing protest of the muscles in my lower back and the pained begging of mercy of my knees, and I'm all smiles over the farewell cup of tea and chocolate biscuits. Jan pithily points out the the summer house has an extension, while the main house is still languishing, waiting for 2010 to roll around... such is life.
Hot of the press! Welton, Melton & Wauldby News
My knowing big city smirk at the sight of the Welton Hairstylists on the August 2009 issue transmogrifies into hand wringing hysteria. This quaint little part of Yorkshire with it's one pub and no post office is a hive of criminal activity!! My perusal of the glowing success of the Gardens Open Day and a rather strange essay entitled 'I was a police officer' is marred by the shocking news that 6 crimes were reported in the period May-June in our area. 2 burglaries from commercial premises, criminal damage (of a minor variety) to 2 commercial premises, a theft from a motor vehicle and 1 incident of being in possession of a controlled drug (Class B amphetamine), and leaves me deeply disturbed. Vinod insists that it's all happening over in Melton at the industrial estate, which would explain the emphasis on the commercial premises, but leaves me even more dubious about the seedy nature of crime in Welton!
The horoscope does little to give me confidence and I entertain grave suspicion about the Welton & Melton Ladies' Wednesday Club (2008-2009 programme was ended with all the members meeting for a strawberries and cream evening...HAH!) and am convinced that oregano (dried) in the Greek Lamb and Potatoes recipe is subliminally in inverted commas. How else could one possibly explain the other essay entitled 'Memories of Hull''???? Just as I am about to despair, my eyes alight upon the highlights from the 1926 minutes of the Welton Women's Institute, and I cannot but quote from it, "An objection was raised about the charge by Mrs Shearer of 1/- per evening for hot water. Mrs Oliver kindly offered to boil the water for tea at the monthly meetings."
My faith in village life restored, I let the Miss Marple in me take over, and take great pleasure in the note from Elaine (yours in Christ) of the St. Helen's church, "Finally another thank you - this time to Elaine Y and bob from the club - for wading in (literally!) to save the day when some one left a selection of unusual items on the island in the pond recently. As a wedding was about to start their quick response meant the items were cleared just in time for the couple to leave the church". Christie was so knowing in her depiction of the utter depravity of village England! A selection of unusual items... Indeed!
I wonder if I can persuade the boys to let me stay in the chalet during summer. Welton society begs a closer look........
The horoscope does little to give me confidence and I entertain grave suspicion about the Welton & Melton Ladies' Wednesday Club (2008-2009 programme was ended with all the members meeting for a strawberries and cream evening...HAH!) and am convinced that oregano (dried) in the Greek Lamb and Potatoes recipe is subliminally in inverted commas. How else could one possibly explain the other essay entitled 'Memories of Hull''???? Just as I am about to despair, my eyes alight upon the highlights from the 1926 minutes of the Welton Women's Institute, and I cannot but quote from it, "An objection was raised about the charge by Mrs Shearer of 1/- per evening for hot water. Mrs Oliver kindly offered to boil the water for tea at the monthly meetings."
My faith in village life restored, I let the Miss Marple in me take over, and take great pleasure in the note from Elaine (yours in Christ) of the St. Helen's church, "Finally another thank you - this time to Elaine Y and bob from the club - for wading in (literally!) to save the day when some one left a selection of unusual items on the island in the pond recently. As a wedding was about to start their quick response meant the items were cleared just in time for the couple to leave the church". Christie was so knowing in her depiction of the utter depravity of village England! A selection of unusual items... Indeed!
I wonder if I can persuade the boys to let me stay in the chalet during summer. Welton society begs a closer look........
A few good men
Mimi's catatonic with rage as the indefatigable one blithely dismisses homosexuality with a waved away, 'It's unnatural..'. 'No it's not!! What if one of us was gay??' she yells. Unperturbed, the woman that spawned us both retorts with equanimity, 'Then you'd be unnatural and I'd disown you'. The little git is rendered to goldfish out of water mode, ineffectually gasping for breath at this outrage. I try and contain my sniggers in a valiant effort not to further inflame the conflagration, as the war continues, all of Mim's righteous outbursts impotent against the muttered undertone of 'it's unnatural'.
The Hungarian and I have lightly moaned about the loss to womankind in Vinod, but given we've both had good men of our own, it seemed less of a tragedy. However, as a single, footloose and fancy free girl about town, I do feel rather resentful about the whole question of sexual orientation!!! It's is thoroughly unfair to have a perfectly wonderful man lost to the inane argument of 'Why are all the good men either married, gay or taken?' Penny philosophy off a tin badge, but the bloody man grows his own mega huge courgettes; bakes bread; wields power tools with the ease of a lumberjack; jhatkos with the best of Bollywood; is a GP; has a beautiful body; is prepring to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro; laughs like a loon and adores Jan!!! The only reason I'm not in the queue of women ready to kill for this, is because I love 'em both....., but Ma's right. This is wrong!!!
The Hungarian and I have lightly moaned about the loss to womankind in Vinod, but given we've both had good men of our own, it seemed less of a tragedy. However, as a single, footloose and fancy free girl about town, I do feel rather resentful about the whole question of sexual orientation!!! It's is thoroughly unfair to have a perfectly wonderful man lost to the inane argument of 'Why are all the good men either married, gay or taken?' Penny philosophy off a tin badge, but the bloody man grows his own mega huge courgettes; bakes bread; wields power tools with the ease of a lumberjack; jhatkos with the best of Bollywood; is a GP; has a beautiful body; is prepring to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro; laughs like a loon and adores Jan!!! The only reason I'm not in the queue of women ready to kill for this, is because I love 'em both....., but Ma's right. This is wrong!!!
Marrow Mayhem
This weekend offered a glimpse into what must have surely been the reason for Mr. Poirot settling down to grow prize vegetable marrows in England. I gape with unrestrained awe as Farmer Menon enters the kitchen, laden with the most humongous courgettes I have ever laid eyes on. Granted, I do not lay my eyes on many courgettes as a matter of course, but I have come across a few in my life. These ones however, would not have been out of place in an akkhada, negligently being swung in ever menacing circles by the resident pehlwan. Apparently, courgettes can grow endlessly, morphing into other sorts of marrows....!!!
He had me at lunch. Scrumptious courgette soup accompanied by generous slices of toasted courgette bread....but the gauntlet was down. 'Make something with the courgette for dinner' and we stomped off to build the shed..... tea break, and we were treated to the sight of a diligent Jan chopping, assembling, reviewing recipes, protectively hovering over his pots and pans.... hmmm, this should be interesting....
A hot shower and I emerge smelling of fruit. I always smell of fruit in that house. My stomach nudges me down the stairs, and my senses are assailed by the exotic scent of spices. My flabber is absolutely gasted as the Chef elucidates;
* Courgette Daal
* Courgette Bharta with green chillies
* Courgette Curry
* Courgette Fry with Bengal gram
The gauntlet flung back with a careless flourish as Vinod and I goggle at Jan's mastery over the courgettes. The ruthless German efficiency decimating the once plump vegetables into objets d'art for our amusement. The fried courgette (which didn't turn out as it was meant to allegedly) with it's flavours of Bengal, waking the sleeping tiger in me (what can I say.... food bestows poetic license!!) is my favourite, followed by the zingy kick in the curry. I insist on full disclosure, and am rewarded for being such a cheap and easy house guest with 3 sheets of recipes and a hand picked, hand washed, organically home grown courgette to play with. Yes, you may think what you will..... I am going to have fun!!
He had me at lunch. Scrumptious courgette soup accompanied by generous slices of toasted courgette bread....but the gauntlet was down. 'Make something with the courgette for dinner' and we stomped off to build the shed..... tea break, and we were treated to the sight of a diligent Jan chopping, assembling, reviewing recipes, protectively hovering over his pots and pans.... hmmm, this should be interesting....
A hot shower and I emerge smelling of fruit. I always smell of fruit in that house. My stomach nudges me down the stairs, and my senses are assailed by the exotic scent of spices. My flabber is absolutely gasted as the Chef elucidates;
* Courgette Daal
* Courgette Bharta with green chillies
* Courgette Curry
* Courgette Fry with Bengal gram
The gauntlet flung back with a careless flourish as Vinod and I goggle at Jan's mastery over the courgettes. The ruthless German efficiency decimating the once plump vegetables into objets d'art for our amusement. The fried courgette (which didn't turn out as it was meant to allegedly) with it's flavours of Bengal, waking the sleeping tiger in me (what can I say.... food bestows poetic license!!) is my favourite, followed by the zingy kick in the curry. I insist on full disclosure, and am rewarded for being such a cheap and easy house guest with 3 sheets of recipes and a hand picked, hand washed, organically home grown courgette to play with. Yes, you may think what you will..... I am going to have fun!!
Usually, I only ever put up recipes for stuff that I've actually tried, but how wrong can I get this one?? (and I have tried it!!)
Creamy Courgette and Dolcelatte soup (as shared by Dr. Menon)
Ingredients: 30 ml Olive oil * 15 gm butter * 1 medium onion, roughly chopped * 900 gm courgettes, trimmed and sliced (what's the deal with the 900 gm??? why not take the plunge and do a kilo??) * 600 ml vegetable stock * 115 gm dolcelatte cheese, diced * 300 ml single cream * 1 tsp dried oregano * salt and black pepper to taste
Method: Heat oil and butter in a large pan until foaming. Add chopped onion and gently cook till onion is soft but not brown, about 5 min. Add courgettes, oregano, salt and pepper. Cook over medium heat for 10 min. stirring frequently to prevent sticking. Pour in the stock and bring to a boil. Keep stirring! Lower the heat, half cover the pan and simmer for about 30 min, stirring occasionally. Add the dolcelatte, and stir till it melts in. Process the soup in a blender till smooth, and if you're super fussy, press through a sieve into a clean pan, otherwise, like me, ignore this bit and move on. Add 2/3rds of the cream and stir over a low heat till heated through, but not boiling. If it's too thick, add some more stock. Pour into bowls, swirl in the rest of the cream and garnish with fresh oregano and more crumbled dolcelatte if you have the patience ;-)
Dr. Paschkowski's handiwork to follow.....
Countryside Caper: Raise Shed; episode I
The illustrations are crap. The parts unlabelled. My consternation at the demand for 'above average DIY skills' on the packaging, somewhat appeased by the sight of the Vinod's toolkits. Each one more impressive than his work kit! Lovingly lined with lush foam, nestling spanners, bolt tighteners in 17 sizes, screwdrivers, wrenches, nails, pliers, sandpaper, scissors, nail gun, wireless power screwdriver (power tools without mains are apparently worthless..), whatsits, thingymabobs, whatchamacallits..... a veritable rogues gallery of bank job essentials. Oh yeah, the Doctor is IN the house!!
A few hours later, we have half the inventory checked off, rain on the horizon, an unsatisfying base to the shed, a loaf of bread and an empty stomach. This is going to be more of a challenge than anticipated. We decide to move our endeavours from the garage to the chalet (what was meant to be the shed, but instead is a summer house, a sexy log cabin, with parquet flooring, double glazed continential windows and japanese blinds made of handmade paper and bamboo...!!!) and discuss installing a hammock there and renting it out for £100/week to jaded Londoners.
The label touting 'made to conform to Australian standards' brings to mind your kinara carpenters rush job, and we heap abuse on their shoddily inferior quality as sharp edges pierce skins, and refuse to align, slide, overlay, slot into place as they should! Still, we are determined to at least get the bleeding frame up, and improvise along the way. It's flimsy and unimpressive, and I'm appalled. I wouldn't leave my cat in there... Vinod assures me, it'll be sturdy once it's done and screwed down. I humour him, and we screw our way through a change in instruction and what seems to be missing and wrong bits, ruthlessly turning in the X18's and X20's. Something isn't right.... the mid-support for the sides are upside down. Given how much we bitched about the sharp edges, and the fucking useless Aussies, it's illuminating that it didn't occur to us sooner..... I'm beginning to think we should call the Poles or at least drag Jan out to suffer alongside.
Back to the drawing board and the Builders tea break (weak, white and sweet.....ugh!) is forgone for a bowl of Green & Blacks chocolate ice cream (really, do I look like I do menial labour???). The rain starts hammering down, but we continue to viciously unscrew and rescrew the support struts and then latch on to the sides, refusing to surrender to the inclement weather. Et Voilà! We have a, non-wobbling in the rain, structure. Unimpressive to the naked eye, but given the Aussie's ineptitue in manufacturing a quality shed, we're highly impressed with our handiwork, and the jaunt back to the house is a victorious, if rapid one. Time for our builders bottoms to get stuck under a HOT shower.
A few hours later, we have half the inventory checked off, rain on the horizon, an unsatisfying base to the shed, a loaf of bread and an empty stomach. This is going to be more of a challenge than anticipated. We decide to move our endeavours from the garage to the chalet (what was meant to be the shed, but instead is a summer house, a sexy log cabin, with parquet flooring, double glazed continential windows and japanese blinds made of handmade paper and bamboo...!!!) and discuss installing a hammock there and renting it out for £100/week to jaded Londoners.
The label touting 'made to conform to Australian standards' brings to mind your kinara carpenters rush job, and we heap abuse on their shoddily inferior quality as sharp edges pierce skins, and refuse to align, slide, overlay, slot into place as they should! Still, we are determined to at least get the bleeding frame up, and improvise along the way. It's flimsy and unimpressive, and I'm appalled. I wouldn't leave my cat in there... Vinod assures me, it'll be sturdy once it's done and screwed down. I humour him, and we screw our way through a change in instruction and what seems to be missing and wrong bits, ruthlessly turning in the X18's and X20's. Something isn't right.... the mid-support for the sides are upside down. Given how much we bitched about the sharp edges, and the fucking useless Aussies, it's illuminating that it didn't occur to us sooner..... I'm beginning to think we should call the Poles or at least drag Jan out to suffer alongside.
Back to the drawing board and the Builders tea break (weak, white and sweet.....ugh!) is forgone for a bowl of Green & Blacks chocolate ice cream (really, do I look like I do menial labour???). The rain starts hammering down, but we continue to viciously unscrew and rescrew the support struts and then latch on to the sides, refusing to surrender to the inclement weather. Et Voilà! We have a, non-wobbling in the rain, structure. Unimpressive to the naked eye, but given the Aussie's ineptitue in manufacturing a quality shed, we're highly impressed with our handiwork, and the jaunt back to the house is a victorious, if rapid one. Time for our builders bottoms to get stuck under a HOT shower.
Countryside Caper: Bake Bread
My body quivers with excitement as Vinod assembles the dry stuff for the bread. Flour (the bread kind, not the other kind…??), yeast and whatnot and chucks it into the bread maker. A bucket of shredded courgette follows, with generous dollops of pumpkin seed and linseed, a splash of oil and we’re ready to roll. I’m glued to the whumpa whumpa of the bread machine and am even allowed to watch it with the lid raised. My open mouthed wonder at watching the mass starting to pull together to resemble a human brain elicits a rather rude ‘good house guest, cheap and easy entertainment for the weekend’ from Jan, but I don’t care. It’s fascinating watching it come together as the machine kneads it, accompanied by Vinod’s educative lecture on the release of CO2 that makes the dough rise. The chemistry of it is as fascinating as watching the mixture spin around. My naive question about the consistency makes the chef frown into the machine, swear and fetch some more flour. I do like his panache.
The little bits that are still stuck to the side bother me, and I ask if I can poke at it…. Jan sniggers in the background, as Vinod gives me the go ahead. It’s all in the wrist action (which brings to mind some other less than appropriate application, but that’s another story) and soon, the sides of the machine are smooth, the brain morphing into a ball, frantically knocking around like a child in a padded cell. I assess the dimensions of the bread maker and debate the pros and cons, of carrying it back to India, with the Master. Given that one can buy bread of the freshly baked variety in Bombay, I’m cautiously optimistic that sourcing ‘bread’ flour is achievable, but the fundamental downside is inescapable. I will start to resemble a pachyderm if I begin to bake my own bread. The wispy fingers of the aroma of fresh bread crooking at you, wrapping itself around you, pulling you towards the fridge for that butter… ….. I need a plan B.
Apparently, the dough won’t rise any faster if I hover around watching it….. I bow to Vinod's vastly superior knowledge on the subject and allow myself to be led away from the kitchen, to the real reason for my boarding the 6 am train to the sticks. The inventory check of the Treco lean-to is frustrating, and we spent our time fruitfully cursing the damn Australians for their inability to do anything remotely Swedish with their component parts or instructions. Before you know it, it’s time to check on the dough. As promised, it’s doubled in size, and Vinod plonks it down on the baking tray moulding it into a round loaf. Another rising, somewhere warm, which in this country would mean the oven. He cunningly sprays on some cooking spray to keep it moist (tip: moist tea towels stick to the dough and only work for Suzie Homemaker) and we’re good to go. Just before we’re done, he flips it over and sprays the bottom much to my horror….. now we will have a loaf of bread that’s crusty all over. Is there no end to his craftiness??? I’m reluctantly led away in the direction of the garage where unintelligible diagrams of a lean to await me, so the bread can cool unhindered for the next few hours…..
Eureka!! Plan B!!! I know. I’ll get one for Farsheed and watch it destroy his life as I pop by for breakfast every now and again..... Bwaaahahaahaaaa!!!!
Countryside Caper
Jan graciously ignores my abnormal chirpiness as we get down to breakfast. Vinod, healthy to the last, compiles a bowl of cereal while Jan and I attack the butter, nutella, cheese and ham with vigorous abandon. The plan is to raise a shed in the garden for Vinod's lawnmower, and he's gone the outsourcing route, cheap Indian labour from London. For those experiencing symptoms of scepticism, my CV is littered with DIY assistant type roles (perhaps, littered is too strong a word, and perhaps most of it was pre-1985).....
I'm fascinated by Farmer Menon's green thumb (no prizes here!!), and my ooohs and aaahs over his home made courgette bread (yes, courgette. Relative of marrow. Long, green vegetable with seeds) and he decides to indulge me. Before we raise the shed, we're gonna bake bread!! Yay!!!
I'm fascinated by Farmer Menon's green thumb (no prizes here!!), and my ooohs and aaahs over his home made courgette bread (yes, courgette. Relative of marrow. Long, green vegetable with seeds) and he decides to indulge me. Before we raise the shed, we're gonna bake bread!! Yay!!!
Doctor Doctor!! It's Swine Flu'
I alight at Brough to be greeted by a Doctor brandishing a bicycle.... Why is he jingling a bicycle helmet instead of the car keys? Granted I'm not at my best given my pre-dawn start, but my suspicions are well founded as the good Doctor waggles his eyebrows at my rather horrified and somewhat accusatory glare at his ensemble and pats the front bar in what he assumes to be an inviting manner. I contemplate getting back on the train, but it's going to Glasgow. We haggle, and as my toes are unable to stay stretched long enough to balance on the bike, and Vinod needs the spanner to do anything about the seat, we agree to roll it home instead.
The alleged 40 minute walk is punctuated by my stomach swearing it can smell roast pork, causing us to debate breakfast at the first pub en route, only to realise that the sneaky aroma wafting itself around my susceptible senses was from Morrisons, and a GP's perspective on swine flu. Yours truly believes it's nothing but a media driven, diversion from the expenses scandal, and well, natural selection if we were to get into it ;-). The Doctor smirks but doesn't disagree. He does however inform me that the UK has been expecting this pandemic for the last 5 years and have been prepared with gallons of Tamiflu (all of which will expire by the end of this year, after which they will be sent to the 'developing' countries), which is why they're now handing it out for swine flu....
Influenza kills 6,000-8,000 people in the UK every year. That's what the H1N1 virus is likely to do, and only to the weak and immune deficient. But Britain is caught in the throes of a pure, pandemic panic and the government has now set up a helpline, and apparently, if you do have the symptoms, you can only proceed under threat of prosecution to find out how to fix it.... so scientific curiosity had to be abandoned.
But what's the point of walking home with a Doctor if he can't amaze one with Swine flu' tales from the clinic?? ... the sheer number of patients who believe they've been struck by the oink bug, a number of anticipated deaths in the lurking, and even an indignant demand to know what the government intends to do to help if you have no friends! I beg your pardon? Apparently, one of Vinod's patient's wife has the virus, and he (the patient not Vinod) is most perturbed by the governments abandonment of them... 'What if I contract it from her? Who will do our shopping??' The good Doctor patiently prescribes baked beans and other tinned goodies (spam!) while he's still mobile.
But my faith in this country is restored. Apparently, the government has been listening, and a guideline has been established for a network of 'Flu Friends'. Yep. The time has come to find those unknown randoms who will collect your medication from the pharmacy before popping down to the supermarket to stock up on baked beans on your behalf. It is a key recommendation of the biggest health campaign 20 years ago to combat the threat of Aids, and leaflets are being posted to every home in Britain. I now begin to understand more fully why the British lost their Empire, even as I rifle through my phone book in search of a friend.
The alleged 40 minute walk is punctuated by my stomach swearing it can smell roast pork, causing us to debate breakfast at the first pub en route, only to realise that the sneaky aroma wafting itself around my susceptible senses was from Morrisons, and a GP's perspective on swine flu. Yours truly believes it's nothing but a media driven, diversion from the expenses scandal, and well, natural selection if we were to get into it ;-). The Doctor smirks but doesn't disagree. He does however inform me that the UK has been expecting this pandemic for the last 5 years and have been prepared with gallons of Tamiflu (all of which will expire by the end of this year, after which they will be sent to the 'developing' countries), which is why they're now handing it out for swine flu....
Influenza kills 6,000-8,000 people in the UK every year. That's what the H1N1 virus is likely to do, and only to the weak and immune deficient. But Britain is caught in the throes of a pure, pandemic panic and the government has now set up a helpline, and apparently, if you do have the symptoms, you can only proceed under threat of prosecution to find out how to fix it.... so scientific curiosity had to be abandoned.
But what's the point of walking home with a Doctor if he can't amaze one with Swine flu' tales from the clinic?? ... the sheer number of patients who believe they've been struck by the oink bug, a number of anticipated deaths in the lurking, and even an indignant demand to know what the government intends to do to help if you have no friends! I beg your pardon? Apparently, one of Vinod's patient's wife has the virus, and he (the patient not Vinod) is most perturbed by the governments abandonment of them... 'What if I contract it from her? Who will do our shopping??' The good Doctor patiently prescribes baked beans and other tinned goodies (spam!) while he's still mobile.
But my faith in this country is restored. Apparently, the government has been listening, and a guideline has been established for a network of 'Flu Friends'. Yep. The time has come to find those unknown randoms who will collect your medication from the pharmacy before popping down to the supermarket to stock up on baked beans on your behalf. It is a key recommendation of the biggest health campaign 20 years ago to combat the threat of Aids, and leaflets are being posted to every home in Britain. I now begin to understand more fully why the British lost their Empire, even as I rifle through my phone book in search of a friend.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)