I'm Not A Horse But...

I keep thinking about Spring.
So as I make my way up to London I'll be searching the verges, hedges and even cracks in the pavements for signs of young green life.
I'm hoping to see a much improved mum whose blue eyes look bluer and whose legs are ready for a trip around the shops. I dare say a microwaved curry will be generously flung in my direction but you know what, I won't mind at all. Mum could stick my head in a horsebag and I'd be happy.

Pigeon Post

Monty is watching two swinging grey pigeons
With each gentle gust of wind, they fall and rise on the branch.
Monty's head is low, his breathing rapid and with each dip of the branch, the cat's head steadies. Rock still, the spoilt predator ponders.
I wonder what he'd do if one got in the conservatory?
Pierce them probably.

Poem: DUSTY MIRROR

Dusty mirror what do you feel?
Slow foaming heartbeats of decaying blood
or
a frenzied fuck gilded happiness

Dusty mirror what do you see?
Sloping sour pale unbitten breasts
or
red, plate sized tits, chewed and spread

Dusty mirror what do you want?
A tangled strangled continuance
or
a life.


Angela Norris

Pre-Sausage Nonsense

After my earlier rant (now deleted on account of feeling much better) I've made a rather deelish cup of coffee. And as I walked away from the kettle Monty grabbed my sleeve saying "Oy you pay attention to me or I'll scratch your varicose veins". Isn't he a love? The no-good toe rag will now undoubtedly follow me from the office into the front room where, on propping myself up with numerous cushions, I'll check the news. This news fixation comes from my parents telling me at a very young age that I should know what's going on in the world. They meant well.

Before I forget, I've found a couple of interesting recipes to try. One is for Apple and Cinnamon Scones, the other, for a Chocolate Fondue! I'm quite excited by the thought of that one. Wonder what I can dip into it? Any ideas?

On the menu today:
I'm on my own, so not much, just the ubiquitous sausage sandwich and one or two of the smashing Bakewell Maids I made yesterday. Will then resist the urge to eat half a packet of Starbursts on account of two things. 1. Sweets are for kids and 2. They might get stuck in me gaps.
Thank you very much I've had my say.

Panless Day

I don't have a pan for my pancakes...

I've got several frying pans but not one of them is small enough to hold the perfect pancake. So....I WON'T MAKE ANY!
But I will.
Probably at the weekend. Because by then I will have bought a six or seven inch pan.
Doesn't seem right somehow, it's Shrove Tuesday and I'm on my own. Well Monty is here of course but he doesn't give a flying fig about batter type things. Just as long as he can smear Nautical Fish all over his whiskers, he'll be fine.

When I return from a short shopping trip I'll be baking some miniature Bakewell Tarts, otherwise known as 3 inch Bakewell Maids. Something rather gooey and fairytaleish about dinky pastries. All I need now is my Prince. But that's soppy girls stuff and I'm a serious woman. Mostly.

Small General Thoughts:

Watched yet another Morgan Freeman film last night. 'Along Came A Spider'. I was in bed again but without the fish. This time the only scales in sight were right by the long mirror. They're not used much, because I scare easily...

The Lamb Couscous was fabulous. Tender chops braised in a coriander, ginger and cumin sauce. I over did it on the apricots though, they looked like oranges spaceships floating in a spicy universe. Tasted good though. The couscous was buttery and plentiful.

Silly people have complained to the BBC about children's presenter, Cerri Burnell. Cerri has one arm and irate over-sensitive mums and dads have said she 'scares' their kids. What a load of rubbish.

I've gone right off Minced Beef.

I think my ears are getting longer.

Sunless Monday Grrrrr!

The sun is sulking and hiding behind the clouds, stupid behaviour when you consider most people like him. He should be out there dominating the sky making us little people squint with his brilliance. Stupid.
Penned in my diary for today:
Stomping about doing womanly things.
On the menu today:
Lamb Couscous. Small lamb chops with a very warmly spiced and heavily apricoted couscous. For pud, something with eggs because I've got loads of the blighters, highly likely I'll make a Creme Caramel, if I start now, it should be ready by seven.

General thoughts on this grey sunless day:
Had my hair cut Saturday tea time. And as my hair floated to the mat Lisa and I talked about: Discos, tax evasion, toasted cheese sandwiches and wrinkles. She's got a funny voice but she charges little.
Watched American Idol. Two of my favourites are in the final 12. Alexis Grace, 21 year old who sings like a forty year old. Blonde hair with splashes of cyclamen and a slight bump in her nose. A good singer with oodles of the likeability factor. Danny Covey, can't remember his age. But his voice is like he has something in his mouth apart from his tongue. Lovely.
Watched History of Christianity last night eating a Fish Melt. Apt I thought. Only I don't expect Jesus had much to do with Mozzarella cheese.
Wore a red faux snakeskin skirt whilst rubbing cream into my knees and fantasising about foursomes. A queer activity but harmless.

Today's Love Quote made me smirk.
I could have told that Euripedes bloke that Love is for teens, oldies and dogs with bandages. Love is an arse.

I've just fed the birds with a great big sun in my eyes. My knee is normal. The photo was taken on Tuesday. Spring is on her way.

Post-Pasta Post

Saw only one of my employers tabby cats today, I tried to pick him up (the cat that is) but he wasn't having any of it so I left him looking out through the cat flap. Silly puss. As I cleaned the upstairs windows I looked down onto a soggy windswept garden and then closed my eyes for a second. I imagined a June sun baking the borders, and bushes of various sizes and colours lighting up the lawn. And then I thought of Wimbledon, strawberries and dresses and for a second I had hope. Then I turned away from the window, lifted my skirt and stared at my wretched knee. 'If this melon doesn't deflate to the size of an orange' I said, 'I'm going to the doc.'

I made myself a mug of milkless tea for elevenses, and it wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. Why there wasn't any milk beats me, but I suppose a busy worried man embroiled in divorce proceedings can be forgiven for running out of milk.
And then I carried on doing what I had to do and after checking and re-checking all the rooms I made my way home.

Home.
Home to tomato soup and Monty. After the soup and news I dozed off in the kitchen armchair like an old lady who's downed too many Ports. But then, at around 3, I was up and about but with all kinds of emotional baggage weighing me down, so I had a cup of tea and a nice digestive biscuit.

Tonight's dinner was horrible. I should have listened to my heart and had a Chinese take way. I'll never make sausage pasta again.
I'm desperately sad, not because I messed up dinner but on account of being me.

Today

Keeping erotic thoughts at bay whilst showering on account of being doddery on my feet. Arthritics shouldn't do soapy fantasies.

Lavish red lipstick upon my lips. Because it suits my age, hair and current sexual mood.

Then...

Doing stiff kneed-cleaning whilst talking gibberish to two tabby cats.

Then...

Being a fat fingered chef making a fat tasty cheesecake. I need to drool this afternoon.

Consider the use of elasticated knee bandages.

Just taking a five minute break from my womanly duties...
Duties which include:

Watching the UK TV History channel (about spies or something) as I rustle up an Apple Crumble. Crumble and Spies are so English.

Slicing carrots obliquely. Having a penchant for sharp ends.

Feeling sorrow for the small chicken I'm about to roast. My heart goes out to it. His heart probably going into some cat food.

Cutting an Oxo cube in half. Got to make adjustments in my standard of living.

Dropping boulder sized hints about how much softer and pliable my hands would be if I had a washing machine.

Mentioning bendy knees and my afternoon nap.

England 0 Spain 2

England suffered an unfortunate defeat.
They were up against a decent enough team but I thought the Spaniards were a tad too eager to put the boot in especially in the direction of sweet boy Sean Wright-Philips. Took a right bashing the kid did.

And in the dying minutes of the game the divine Mr Beckham got very flustered and out of sorts and ended up getting booked for dissent. I dare say, in the post-match chat, that England coach, Fabio Capello had a word or two to say to his lads.

This wasn't the newly invigorated England I was beginning to believe in but a hark back to the bad old days when my once glorious England, looked knackered and were continually getting stuffed.

But being an eternal optimist I still believe that we're going to do well under the stern but giddily handsome Mr Capello, and that one day in 2010 England will lift the World Cup.
Or at least get close enough to see their reflections.

Nuts About England

All I know about today is that my beloved England are playing some Spaniards. Have no idea where they're playing but they're playing tonight, it's a night game. And they are my favourite.

Doing stuff today.
Stuff like..

Trying to straighten my swollen fingers by sitting on them.
Changing from a large handbag to a smaller one on account of aforementioned fingers.
Dressing up in clothes of dishevelled allure due to mental state and age
Stretching legs by strolling into a pub. Won't do chicken-in-a basket just alcohol-in-a-glass.
Messing my mouth up with Nobby's Nuts.

Battered Down South

The storms last night were horrendous and many parts of Essex are flooded. As I look out of my office window I see the remnants of devilish winds and torrential rain, the bushes are still swaying and the dividing fence between me and my neighbour is rattling. But a hardy old soul has just passed by, his red and white anorak puffed up like a tent and I wonder where he's going. Probably down to Somerfields or the bakers.
And me, where am I going? Nowhere.

On the menu today Chicken casserole, mashed potatoes and green beans. For pud? Chocolate pudding and custard.

The chicken casserole is a queer old thing because it's made with store cupboard ingredients. Two chicken legs are browned with some onions and then a handful of lemon, thyme and parsley stuffing, some cooking wine and a tin of tomatoes are added. Plenty of black pepper and a kiss of salt are added too. Simple stuff but much welcomed on a winter's day.

Mashed potatoes are a subject worth talking about. I always pop in a good amount of butter and some warm milk and then beat it up with a big old fork.
The chocolate pudding I'll be making will have traditional pudding makers spitting feathers because I'll be making a microwaveable version. Shock horror! Don't get me wrong, it's still a fabulous little pudding, only it won't take three hours to cook; more like three minutes...
The recipe, funnily enough, comes from The Farmhouse Kitchen Microwave Cookbook. I wonder what Dorothy Sleightholme would think. Bless her.
Anyway that's enough of domestic stuff.

I'm in the mood for love so I expect a daft poem or two might be posted.

From A Brit To A Yank

An ocean roars between us
its hugeness
a massive wet cuddle
for friendship tames the fathoms.

And unsettling waves?
Just very deep puddles.


copyright Angela Norris

On the menu today:

Sausage Pasta made with spicy pork sausagemeat laced with apple, carrots and tomatoes.
The pasta is whatever I happen to have in the cupboard. Penne probably. To go with it, some hot garlic bread and sweetcorn. After pasta a pud? Of course. The remains of yesterday's strawberry trifle.
Talking of yesterday, I roasted a very small bird. Not much there but what was there was nice. Bit like me.

Later on either today or this week I'll attempt to lay some mint green carpet in the bathroom. This carpet was bought for £2 on Saturday in a charity shop in the nearby village of Hockley. Whilst in Hockley I went into the library and bought a 'withdrawn book' for 20p. Mary Wesley's 'The Dubious Legacy'. Only read the first few paragraphs but seems to be ok. Very English and all that.

My hands are horrid, my fingers resembling over blown Twiglets. Nasty.
My knees are stiff and remind me of hard solid balloons. Hideous.
My hair is a constant source of both amusement and annoyance because when I'm used to looking like a convict then suddenly I resemble a beatnik I tend to get in a lather. Therefore I am constantly torn between keeping it short or letting it flourish. Short equals my new found oldness and flourish means harping back to my youth. But I think long hair on a old girl looks a bit daft. So...I'll be on the phone to the droning Lisa.

Now I surf...

Spark: Erotic Poetry

A spark flashed the sky
it isn't lightning she thought and dawdled back indoors
Yeah it's not lightning 'cos why should lightning come, come here she asked the wall.
And her flowered duvet though damp with tearstains felt snug like home up against her strained face
So she sucked it
What was the spark for she asked the pillow as her mascaraed eyes tried to focus
tried to see.

But as she pondered two stiff nipples she asked the mirror why a spark come
Why?
And then a screech come from a fox next door
was probably caught under the dividing fence
she wept into the hair brush
Should I go out into the ice and free its orange body
she asked his favourite lipstick, his perfume, his hand puppet
Wouldn't thank me she thought and stuck her fingers in her ears

Snow was coming down again, like confetti on a brides head and how, so she hummed the The Wedding March
Going from one side of the bed to the other side she wondered if the fox wouldn't be better off somewhere else like a big dark forest
It would be free to be a fox of the first order rather than a village fox fucking about with fences.

Ribbing her forehead with lines of consternation she asked the holy picture by the t.v. for one more spark
just so her night would be bright, even if just for a second


Angela Norris copyright

Riches

This is what I'd do if I were rich.

1. Have staff. A gardener and a cleaner. I wouldn't employ a cook though because that's the one housewifely duty I love. But gardening can be tiring for a miniature arthritic woman whose idea of gardening is throwing a few seeds in an unsuitably sized pot. And whose idea of cleaning is a twenty second re-arrangement of dust. But cooking a meal and baking a loaf and a cake is pure happiness.
2. Visit places. Places like Italy and the U.S.A. Italy for handbags and art, the States for stores, doughnuts and folk.
3. Buy a cottage. And furnish it like a writer, with solid furniture, an Aga and an abundance of freshly picked flowers.

That is what I'd do if I were rich.
This is what I'll do today. Make a chicken casserole for tomorrow, start a shopping list, make a Manchester Tart. I have fond memories of eating this for school dinners in about 1966. So I searched the web and found the recipe for it. Whether or not it'll bear any resemblance to the original I have no idea but it'll be fun trying.

Monty is on a pile of un-ironed shirts and John's mum is ill but a few tender daffs have popped up in the front garden and with the melting snow cascading down the stems I'm sure Spring is round the corner.

Trudged round the corner to my cleaning job this morning and was met by two very snowed up and cheesed off cats! My employer phoned this morning asking me if I'd feed the little 'uns on account of him being stuck up the line in Harlow or somewhere. So there I was at 9 a.m. clad in an off white fur coat dishing out Go Cat to a pair of frosty tabby cats. After doing what I had to do, which included polishing his Hugo Boss bottles and hanging up his sea of discarded jeans I returned home to Monty whose fascination with the never ending snowflakes made me feel like a kid again. I don't know why but whenever I see him entranced by the simplest of things I go soppy. What a prune I am.

For dinner tonight we had Latimer Beef one of my absolute favourites of all time, just for the record Latimer Beef is just a beef casserole which is highly spiced with ginger, curry powder, Worcestershire sauce and Horseradish sauce. A bit of brown sugar is put in to just to soften the killer blow. Had my own recipe for spicy rice to accompany it and some Garlic and Coriander Naans. No alcohol because not only am I getting a dangerous taste for the Port but am up to 8 stone. I think it's something to do with the weather or something.

Lists are something I like compiling so here's one.

People I'd Like To See OFF My Television Screen Forever.

1.Alan Titchmarsh because he's an embarrassment and tries to be a sex god when really all he is is an old gardener with a silly hairstyle
2.Paula Abdul because she's shrinking and looking quite middle aged even though she's rich and has dyed teeth
3.Fiona Bruce (newsreader) because she reminds me of Mr Spock and has dyed hair
4.Jamie Oliver (chef) because he's a mockney and should have his incisors chiselled.
5. Jeremy Clarkson because he shouts and reckons himself and instead of packing a six pack he's lugging a barrel.
6. Jonathan Ross because he makes millions of pounds by being obnoxious, he also has very little talent.
7. Any squawking screeching Weather Women.
8. Middle aged men with dyed hair. See 1.
9. The entire cast of EastEnders because I am addicted to them in a major way and this addiction is spiralling out of control.
10. All middle aged presenters who have taut faces and scraggy necks and are tangoed orange and held in by girdles. Act your age guys and gals. Like me!

More lists soon...