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.
There is a God
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 :)
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!
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