Cow and Cat

I was going to write some erotica but the beef stew has made me come over all sleepy...
So, with a fat cat in tow, I'll stagger beefily into the front room and watch a bit of telly.
Night night...

Ray Day

Well here I am.
And on my to do list for today is:
1.Manoeuvre the hoover around two tabby cats and a brash load of ornaments. Lovingly ponder the Batman poster in the kids room and drying off the Jordan poster in the office.
Today is Ray Day.
Employer number 1.

2.Come home to the kitchen of love to make an enormous beef casserole. (will tell you why later on) Also make a large smooth as silk Chocolate cake.

3.Daydream about the England match on Wednesday. Already got the flag out. Already got the expletives to hand...

4.Throw handbags around the bedroom on account of being 1. A woman. 2. A twit and 3. dangerously hormonal.

5 Continue cleaning my teeth with some stupid sparkly stuff from Superdrug on account of 1. Fading teeth. 2. Diminishing brain cells and 3. Vanity

Now this beef casserole I'm making. It will need to be big because
1. We're getting older, grumpier and more carnivorous.
2. I like long slow cooked affairs
3. I'm going to take round a bowlful to my next employer, who will, I'm pleased to say be in my capable hands from tomorrow he will be Employer number 2."This time" I told him "It's gratis". He loved that, only hope he loves the stew.

Here is a lightningly quick list of my most favourite indoor pursuits:
1. Re-arranging dust
2. Re-arranging knick knacks
3. Looking in my purse.

Now I must rush to Ray. An erotic poem may be posted later. Depends on the state of my hands.

Pork and The Kid Who Would Be King...

On the Horsehound menu today:
Sweet and Sour Pork. I'll add a few chunks of cucumber, some itsy bitsy slices of pineapple and a wacking great load of carrot and peppers.
Pancake Rolls. From Sainsburys. Decent enough dipped in a bowl of Chilli sauce.
Boiled Noodles. Drained and then tossed in Sesame oil. Not a lot mind you on account of my heart and exorbitant price of aforementioned oil.

To satisfy my one remaining sweet tooth:
A bar of Galaxy chocolate inlaid with almonds and raisins. This is much better than Cadburys Fruit and Nut.
To drink: Water and tea. My innards are delicate and therefore need cleansing by copious amounts of tap water and PG Tips.

Entertainment comes in the form of recorded coverage of American Idol. Where two of my favourites, Adam Lambert who reminds me of a young Elvis, and Danny Cokey who is just nice will be singing their tonsils out doing Motown classics under the smooth supervisory wing of Mr Smoky Robinson.

I so love A.I. it's the bigness and brashness of it I love, the host Mr Ryan Seacrest who will, from now on, be known as Brian Sea Cucumber is as squeaky clean as my kitchen knives and just as sharp. But I don't fancy him. After all that I feel a film is on the cards, probably the one I recorded last night, "The Edge" I think it's called. Anyway it has the divine Anthony Hopkins in, and that's good enough for me. I am not in love with him.


General stuff now.
My hair is looking a bit bouffant. And that is bad because it makes me act like a madam.
I bought a new secondhand jacket yesterday when out with my stitched skull mum. It's short, red and made in Paris and it cost £5. It reminds of the type of jacket Jackie Kennedy might have worn. I will avoid men named John...Ooops!
I have a new job. My second. I will be a Housekeeper to a business man who has a wicked sense of humour and a nice belly. He likes beef, chocolate, First World War poetry, God and money.
I think we'll get on.

That's enough from me.
More Monday.

Mum hit her head yesterday and had to have nine stitches.

To see you plastered
made my insides weep
the square of dressing
sat cap like
clamping your fading hair to your tender head
What you doing to me?
I silently asked
as you slopped my tea towards me
"Let's go to Boots" you laughed
and I loved you.

Leeks Are The New Cucumbers

Carrying on from yesterday's juicy post here's some more foodie related stuff.
I am growing accustomed to Leeks. Not the poncy extra-trimmed, washed, packaged ones but real ones, real ones which lay haphazard in the box, loose and dirty. I like food to excite me and untidy veg does it for me. I also get a lot of pleasure from scrubbing, because there's no better feeling than cleaning out a leek. Getting right in between the layers inching out every speck of dirt splashing water all over them and them slicing them smiling, I like that enormously. But I digress slightly, leeks are becoming a favourite on account of their many uses, for example, one was popped in a chicken casserole yesterday and very good it was too. I have three other leeks. One will go into a beef casserole and the other, well, I'll have to ponder that...

Last nights chicken casserole was so gorgeous I didn't want it to end.
The chicken thighs were braised in cooking wine and the sauce was thickened by the addition of a handful of lemon and parsley stuffing (from a packet). Simple enough, no surprises or wowees, but, and here's the queer part, a spoonful of apricot jam is included. Don't get in a flap over it, it's all perfectly natural and perfect. Jam and chicken? Queer but great!
Now accompaniments.
Usually I do mashed potatoes, but I couldn't be bothered so I cooked 8oz of Couscous to which I added butter, pepper and salt. It was sublime. The redded chicken looked fabulous resting on a couscous mound and for once I had seconds! If you haven't tried couscous, try it, your life will be made happier by it.

That was yesterday, today I'm making Nasi Goreng, an Indonesian dish, although if a pukka Indonesian chap tasted my version he'd hit me because I'm sure it bears no resemblance to an authentic Goreng, but we like it, and I have my favourite cook to thank for introducing it to me, the lovely everlasting Mary Berry.
More about her some other time...

Now I must dash to a rather late brekkie. And I'm ditching the porridge in favour of Weetabix. I wonder if it'll affect me?

Happy Food

Meatballs.
Had a few last night and very good and friendly they were too. I've always wondered what makes certain foods 'friendly'. Has it something to do with childhood memories? Is my fascination with Spotted Dick all down to spending my formative years in steamy London cafes? Yes to both. But Meatballs where do they figure in Glo's past? Because never ever did my mum, gran or indeed anyone dish up a plate of meatballs. The nearest I got to queer gear was eating some sort of Goulash/stew made by the mother of my school friend, Marina Mihilovich. I remember the table sported a red velvet cloth and the Goulash tasted fab. After all I was a kid whose only foray into exotic cuisine was an Arctic Roll.
But back to my main point what makes food friendly? It can't all be down to distant sticky kiddie memories there must be another reason. And I think I know what it is. Food must be happy. Here's a list of my Happy Food.

1. Jam Puddings. First had these at about five years old drowning in cafe custard. That's the pud not me.

2. Chocolate Cake. The doyen of cakes. Men like big ones I've noticed.

3. Toad-in-the-hole. Bangers for birds as well as blokes. But must use decent snorkers.

4. Roast dinners. Life would be unthinkable without these.

5. Messy Rice dishes like Nasi Goreng where fried pork, veg, soy sauce, omelette and chopped tomato all get twirled around in my biggest gayest bowl. That is joyous.

6. Curries of course. Home made, yes but restaurant ones are good too because not only do you get a choccie and damp towel at the end but you get to scorch your hand on the burner too!

7. Chinese. At the weekend if money allows. Munching on Chow Mein and Crispy Shredded Beef whilst watching a violent film.

8. Steak with steak and more steak. It is my one indulgence. But what makes steak even better is having a tiny piece measuring approx. 4x2 with a fried egg and tomato ketchup whilst listening to the news. Heaven.

9. Bagels. Yes I've taken to them in a big way. Toasted with butter and raspberry jam. They are the kings of the dough world.

10. Bananas, cucumbers and steak pies. Not at the same time. I secrete a banana about my person when out and about, I worship cucumbers because they're innocent, make a decent curry accompaniment and are almost calorie free. They also serve to amuse. Steak pies are magical, magnificent and majestic, especially with chips.

So that is my list of happy food. What makes YOU happy?

No Idea

As I drifted around Sainsburys trying to avoid nasty old people, buggy pushers, workmen in flourescent jackets and chattering middle-aged women with silent husbands in tow my mind wandered off to sweeter things. Things like lipstick, poetry, blonde hair and erotic underwear propped up my sanity as they always always do. And when I got to the checkout I knew that within a few minutes I'd be off and away driving in whatever direction home is, and into the loving needle- sharp paws of Monty. It was going well. Until, coming up behind me, was a man clearly unwell. His loud voice spoke about queues, cider, the woman in the fish shop, insomnia and his Bi-Polar and after five minutes of this the comatose queuing customers just wanted out.

His choice of dress didn't help him make friends, head to toe in black, even his eyes being shielded by sunglasses. He sported a crucifix and his spiked dog collar had nothing to do with being a vicar. But he was articulate and clean, and I dare say a decent enough bloke, but to the average Joe he was a nuisance and a nutter. I shot a prayer up hoping he wouldn't corner me because I was tired and wanted to get home, unfortunately my prayer went unheard so as I packed my bags he asked loudly if I knew what Bi-Polar was, I said Yes, he laughed and in a booming voice said "I've met my new wife". The cashiers head couldn't get any lower, her eyes carefully avoiding the man in black and my own so I handed over my money and left.
I left him with his illness and as I walked away wondered how many of the bitching nasty tutting shit-scared customers had any idea of the hell he was in.

Poet/Cook

It's beastly out there today.
Happy blue skies have been solemnly replaced by grim grey, but we poets/cooks carry on.
Last night, after a pizza, I wrote the following poem, it nigh on suffocated me, that's the poem not the pizza...And yet as my fingers swept across the keyboard all I felt was relief. Relief at being able to write. Being able to effortlessly lay down words has always thrilled me. And I was thrilled last night.
I hope you like it.

Now to my other life as a cook.
I'm making a Roman Cobbler for dinner and for pud Scotch pancakes with ice cream and butterscotch sauce. Italy meets Scotland. Sounds like a footie match to me.


Venus.

We saw Venus
as the ancient sea kicked in fury
her blazing light incredible
as the waves came home to beach

I saw You
as a young man on the road
your blistering ideas abundant
as we rushed inside to sleep

I saw Venus
as we lay luxuriant, fertile
our schemes unfailing, impressive
as all good dreams should be

I saw Us
as the clock pinged 6
locked lovely in complex love knots
and we sat silent as the waves stood still.


Angela Norris

To Do. Probably.

1. Bask in the sun through dusty windows. The conservatory knick knacks need attending to and the floor needs a scrub

2. Day dream about night time. Last night, this night and probably next week's nights.

3. Eat the last Bagel, probably this afternoon whilst watching a recorded documentary about Alma Cogan.

3. Hold hands with Monty just like in picture above. This was taken a couple of weeks ago, we were having a gentle loving Mother and son moment. The very next moment he stormed off.

4. Compose great literature after making a small pizza.

That's enough for one Sunday.
As I look out onto my large frontage I grin wickedly because the grass was cut yesterday and not by me! And as a few daffs rock and roll in the breeze my heart jumps to the sound of the kettle switching off....

To A Seagull.

Eye to eye I fell for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
live on rocks and on the sea?

Breast to breast I fell on you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, just you and me
swagger on cobalt waves all day?

Head to head I fell for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
strut our feathers along the parade?

You with your swank, your arrogance and prance
peck out my heart, my beater
and me, like a mad woman, dips in the chair
You show-off, you bragger, you bully.

And then after you'd feasted
you left me
sweeping up malty tear-sodden crumbs
But eye to eye I'd fallen for you
no sense in love at all
Could we, that's us, that's you and me
live on rocks and by the sea?


Angela Norris

It's Vera Again!

Here's what Vera's daughter Susan said about my tribute to her Mother on Saturday 14th March. If you haven't read it or seen the stunning photo have a look now...

"Gloria - I can hardly see what I am typing by the tears that are blurring my vision. Tears of gratitude to my mother for being my mum, and to you writing such a tribute. In a few paragraphs you successfully portrayed who she was. I think she would have liked the idea of being made immortal in cyberspace - she was that kind of girl! Susan x"

It's A Poet Thing

'Writing begets writing' someone said.
They were right.

Over the past two years I've written an astounding amount, blog posts, emails. private poetry for the red diary and automatic writings which, although saved in a cyber folder, just hang around in the air never to be used. The quantity has left me almost speechless. What I'm asking now is what did I do it for? Did I do it for myself or others? Was it a hangover from my past, whereby I filled notebook after notebook with jottings or is it because I have something to say. Something I feel people might like. I suppose it's a little of everything but mostly I write because I have to.
And I have to because otherwise I wouldn't be me. Simple.

If I could draw horses and castles I would, if I could write symphonies I would but I can't do any of those things. What I can do however is scramble words together in the hope of pleasing both myself and others. A long time ago a newspaper editor said to me "You have to cajole readers into reading, you have to stop them from turning over the page to do the crossword". He was right of course. The secret of a successful writer is that he has to grab people by the throat and restrict their breathing, your words must halt their stride and keep them stuck to your side. In other words the writer needs to be both callous and affectionate. A big ask? No, not for most writers, most writers are so in love with themselves and their talent that they really don't have the time to worry about their readers health. All they want and need is your love. That's all.

Poetry is, for me, a funny genre. Funny because it takes so few words to convey great big emotions and simple ideas. My poems, and I have no idea if they're good, bad or indifferent, satisfy me. Some can be self indulgent, and these tend to be written when I'm feeling happy, randy or suicidal. In other words when I'm being selfish. But whenever they're penned and for whatever reason, they're true.

Here's one of my favourites. It's a rare specimen because it's non self-indulgent, in fact it's quite tender.



And, suddenly, like sizzling stars
my kisses crown you delicately most honestly
Allow me sweetheart to wash your head with my love
My darling man

Taking up your worries
I throw them to a place where neither you or I will go again
cheering with you as old pains fly through the universe
your chest rises easily
no more damaging life medals to weigh you down

If you slither down into a familiar pit
I'll break my arms to lift you out
Wringing the necks of familiar serpents on our ascent
we'll then make garish bone necklaces to laugh at.

When the sun sleeps
we will not
because we will make loudness a beautiful thing
a cacophony of sound will stir the bedbugs
we will make the perfect pillows unravel

And when the sun puts the moon in her place
I'll kiss your eyes open.

Saintly Monday

We needed sleaze.
And we got it.
After having our hearts shocked and then soothed by the lady in the white jacket, John and I got down on the floor. We ate spicy food, tore our socks off and then rammed toffee wrappers down the side of the settee. Saturday was kind of cool but Sunday was hotter. We were both exhausted Saturday morning, but after a brief breakfast we shot to the train station to do boring ticket stuff then home to melting cheese and Rock cakes.

Later that day after many pots of tea and filthy looks I took the man by the hand and told him how youthful he looked on his back. And he did. And as his grey hair swept over my mouth I thought 'Oh yeah'. Or something like that.
But Saturday wasn't only about seduction, food played a part too. I thought some home made Chinese food would suit the kaleidoscopic mood of the day, so I played with chicken, honey and all kinds of spices and with a few swift violent swipes of the cleaver, whipped up a perfect delicacy for two.
And so after we ate, the lipstick free Gloria and stubble faced Johnny screwed themselves to the settee and watched a few singing American kids. Perfect. The night got dark quickly and at about ten, as the soap foamed on my cheeks, I squinted around the bathroom and longed for sleep. And so we slept. John looked pure and 25, I looked dazed and 52.

Sunday was another chicken day.
But thankfully a non-sophisticated apple crumble baked alongside it putting the chicken firmly in its place, and so after being lulled by a homely roast lunch, we talked all day about everything. The conversation topics being life and death, riches and poverty and the benefits of having an imagination. Tables figured large too.
Much later on, a little televisual entertainment induced silly rude shouts about licence fees, repeats, Sci-Fi and the demise of real talent. Nothing new there then. We didn't eat many toffees but just before seven we ate, in a sandwich, all but the very soul of the wretched chicken, it's carcass and skin being left out as a treat for the foxes.
Sunday night came all of a sudden and as I laid in bed with Monty's arse in my face I wanted nothing.

On the menu tonight: Not chicken.

VERA BREEN

I first met Vera in 1982 when I was dating her son John, and she made a huge impression on me and here's why.

She was beautiful.
Far too beautiful, and I imagine that she enraged her dull grey-faced neighbours with her magnificent hair and movie star eyes. She was also ballsy and charming, two traits I love in women. I attended her funeral yesterday, and amid the stillness of the chapel service there rested a large photograph of Vera dressed in pink. Her sexiness poured out like honey over crystal. She was a corker of a girl. She was a real woman. A woman's woman.

Vera died aged 84 and her life was interesting.
She married Joe, a man a great deal older than her, then after his untimely death the young Vera said "Blow you, I'm going out". And so she did and one night she met a charming Liverpudlian called Chris and they married. Chris is devilishly handsome and if I close my eyes I see them drinking in Spain, dancing in ballrooms and falling asleep after kissing the night away. They were the Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of the Warwick Estate, their good marriage was as a marriage should be, love-filled, friendly and often tempestuous.

Vera's children are all successful middle-aged people managing jobs and families with aplomb, their Mother's blood obviously gallops through their veins.

The last time I saw Vera she was in hospital and I asked her if she'd like to wear some lipstick.
The dying woman's eyes blazed widely and they shouted "YES!"

I'm A Woman!

1.These kittens are nothing to do with me, I saw them when I was surfing for cat pics. If these sweet bundles were mine I'd tap their bonny heads with my gnarled fingers and weep uncontrollably every time they burped. Sorry guys, I'm having a bit of womanly moment.

2. Buy 1 leek.

3. Watch the Cheltenham Festival on channel 4 as I make a beef and dumpling casserole, that's why I need the leek. Dumplings are great if they're slightly lopsided and splitting down the middle, but they must be uniform in size.

4. Sorting through my vast collection of jewellry, 99% of which is secondhand and entangled, so I'll spend fifteen minutes disentangling it. Buggered-up beads are bad!

5. Spend pointless time wishing I was less in love with trinkets, cats and leeks.

Moonwards. Poem

Bejewelled, you, the valiant king
steal a kiss
leaving me dull,
without my shine

Thunderous, you, the joker on stage
steal my tongue
deafening me with lion-hearted words

I whimper

Licking up tears
and
spent and unadorned
I gather myself in...


You, the chief, stroll on

As I turn my face moonwards
on the last night of my old life
my blisters burst
leaving me raw skinned but
respectable

My lips curve

Thunderous, I, the mistress
take what's mine
leaving you wishing,
without hope

Bejewelled, I, the woman on stage
fiddle with your heart
leaving you...


Angela Norris

Shut Up Gordon. Forever.

And about time too.
Someone's said it.
It's official.
Gordon Brown is the worst public speaker of all time and in all the world.

Every time I hear that man my heart sinks. His lifeless, passion free utterances leave me head banging myself to sleep. "Go away Scotty" I beg but he doesn't, he stays, just to annoy me. He's an irritating, humour free, blundering politician whose patted down hairstyle makes him look like a Victorian murderer. And if that isn't bad enough, when he shuffles his bits of paper around, he reminds me of an awkward, blundering, ham fisted headmaster whose only joy in life is sucking on strong mints.

"Please go" I often say as his mighty elephantine hands continually tap sheets of paper on the despatch box, his irritating lumbering style at PMQ's leaves me calling for Cameron. But the prickly Scot hangs on, both to his bits of paper and his job.
So Gordon Brown, although handsome in a solemn kind of way, is the worst deliverer of speeches ever. He hasn't risen to the task of being Prime Minister, so when he finally whimpers away, he'll be left looking for a new job and possibly a new voice coach.

Thank you very much, I've had my say.

Now Mrs Horsehound's humdrum stuff.

Cooking a fat steak tonight. For pud, a diaphanous slice of carrot cake. Calorie counting...

Will re-arrange a jug of artificial roses, probably put them against the window as opposed to leaning against the wall. They'll look fine pressing their peachy heads against dusty glass.

Some daffodils are opening. Buttery sunlit yellow. Beautiful and simple. Eagerly awaited.

Mrs Horsehound Does Mrs Beeton

I'm in Mrs Beeton mode.

Baking in the oven right now is a Carrot cake, in the fridge waiting to be turned into Meatballs are minced beef, Cumberland sausagemeat, red peppers and garlic.
On the kitchen table, in a mess, are heaps of old recipe books which, although loved are left to fend for themselves in the living room. And that me dears is no place for food books. So I'm in a flap wondering where to put them. Good friendly food books should be squashed together on a kitchen dresser but unfortunately my two dressers are already exhaustively crammed with stuff. Mostly books, but ornamental jugs, honey pots and plates are now rubbing shoulders with the likes of Mary Berry, Delia Smith and Nigel Slater.

The only answer is to stick some shelves on the wall, there's a small space by the small window which could be home to a dozen or so heavyweight recipe books. I have to do something.
One of the reasons we chose this bungalow was the size of the kitchen. It's not huge by any standard but compared to the galley kitchen I endured in London, my current one is like a kitchen in Buckingham Palace. Huge and well stocked. The only thing I'm not too keen on are the windows. Yes windows. There are three, not including the glassed door to the conservatory. Talk about letting the light in, still when clean they do like rather nice.

The infamous table is right smack bang in the middle of the room, not the perfect place aesthetically, but it feels right. And that's my guide always. Does it feel right? Two dressers, one harking back to the 1960's, the other, pine, and only a few years old. Both are indispensable, wouldn't have a damn place to put anything if I didn't have them. I don't think I could live with a fitted kitchen, I like the freedom free standing furniture gives, many a time I've humped the furniture around only to put it back in it's original position the very next day.
I'm a woman.

So as the cake burns at the edges and the books stand piled up in a higgledy piggledy fashion rather like a child's attempt at architecture, I sip my instant coffee in a plastic cat pinny. I don't think Mrs B. would approve of that.
Although she might like the cake...

Update...Update....Update.....

On the menu tonight:

Roman Cobbler. Fried Pork, chestnut mushrooms, sage and garlic then topped with a cobbler made with a cheesey semolina I'll serve the beauty with sweetcorn and green beans. For pud, the last of Sunday's trifle.

Had a snooze this afternoon. Only an hour, but it felt good falling into the arms of Morpheus just after The Jeremy Kyle Show. (ITV2) Then I awoke to a rumbling tum so gobbled a small ham sandwich. What is it about sleep and men that turns me into a frenzied piglet?

Shampoo For The Elderly, Banana For The Babe

To Do List. 'Tis All True

1 Buying baby shampoo in my outrageously over-priced down-the-road chemist. No I'm not pregnant, it's just that the senior member of the household is a sensitive old man whose big head DEMANDS a gentle lathering.

2. Creeping into the cheap charity shop just around the corner from the horrible chemist to see if there's something there to make me smile. Preferably costing less that £1.

3. Bake a few Fairy cakes. Will definitely overdo the decorations because I'm generous, childlike and easily excited.

Later...

4. Eat a banana whilst polishing me knick-knacks. Could possibly cause indigestion if I rub too rapidly.

5. Pop in and out of small conservatory re-arranging bird ornaments in an attempt to stop
Monty smashing them to bits with his wagging tail. You are NOT a dog Monty!

6. Think about the writing of a moon poem

7. Doing other stuff like putting old poems in folders marked poems and actually remembering to save them. Looking at the scorch marks on my left hair free shin, and diving head first into the freezer searching for two pork chops.

8. Designing a banana long boat for tea. Will wildly over-do it as usual. But bananas should be FUN:)

Blimey that's enough for one arthritic, pro-moon, banana loving babe to do.
I'm off to dazzle...

Zzzzzzz

I'm feeling ebullient, resilient, dazzling, so I shall go to bed with Monty and the Oxford English dictionary.
Does that make me a bit of a pillock?

Glo Glows..But not at 5.

After nastily waking the birds up at 4:45 I decided that today was going to be GOOD! Groaning around the living room at such a disgusting hour is not the ideal way to spend Saturday morning but it has its compensations. Compensations like having time to do things.
So after some sugar I verily ran to the pet shop to stock up on bird food, then, with a struggling sun making my baggy eyes weep, I toddled back home.

"Ok" I said "Let's get me apron on and do stuff". So...I've marinated two chicken legs, some chopped red and green peppers and two whopping bananas. The marinade is a fruity currified one and is an old favourite of ours. As I was de-skinning the chicken my mind wandered away to Sunday teatime! "Oh crumbs" I thought " "What's an old Queen to do?" Then I had a brainwave, albeit a small one...Pizza. So I very quickly made some Pizza dough and it's now sitting on the sunny windowsill. Rise you blighter, rise! Topping will be concocted later. Probably 5 p.pm or thereabouts.

Now coffee with two sugars.

After the caffeine I'll make a trifle for tomorrow. Then it's video time. Not going to watch anything, just want to record about four hours of American Idol which is on ITV2 this afternoon:)

Then later tonight, lipstick, perfume and de-skinned poultry legs.

Other irrelevances:

1.Saw a small child on a very small pony. The horselett and jockeyette were coming towards me, just as I turned into my road. They were of course accompanied by two sturdy looking men. Both quite old and dressed in dirty vicious anoraks. I dipped my head as they passed. I wasn't wearing much make-up.

2.Moles are making holes in my garden.

3. Jehovah's Witnesses turned up just after 10. Mob handed of course.

Things I Can't Live Without. WARNING! IT'S A WHOPPER!

1. Big secondhand ornamental plates. Laying flat or propped up waiting to fall.

2. Monty. Awake or asleep. Fragrant or smelly.

3. Hidden money. Especially £20 notes.


4. My navy blue goatskin gloves. Winter spring summer and autumn.

5. Red lipstick. Looks smashing spread widely.

6. Laughing. 'Tis the bestist medicine.


7. Balding men. Six-pack chaps are fine but muscular tubbies are welcome too!

8. Chocolate. In any form. Anywhere.

9. Cakes. Happy full fat ones. Keep miserable low fat ones right away from me.


10. Cucumbers. Both real and ceramic.

11. Poetry. Old and new. But nothing from The Southend Poetry Group. Thank you.

12. My charm. Get it from dad. So glad I haven't got his wind.


13. Secondhand skirts. Short, long, but never in between.

14. Essex Gold Radio. Old records to head bang to on my way to Sainsburys.

15. Erotic lingerie.


16. Vaseline. For lips and eyebrows. Nothing sexual. For that, nothing beats Flora Buttery.

Trapeze Artiste Not On The Ropes

The beef casserole I made yesterday was the best beef casserole I've ever made. Ever. Its unctiousness made tears of lust drip onto me fork. Yes indeed, the cow did me good. So good in fact that I over slept! Now that's what I call being satisfied.
Today's culinary dildo is a large Toad.

Other stuff now:
The BMA wants free prescriptions for everyone. I agree. I foolishly ration my arthritic drugs because I don't like paying £7.10 every few weeks. I know I know, I shouldn't do that but I have better ways of spending my money thank you very much. I mean, I paid £3 on Tuesday for a breathtaking golden candlestick, that my dear people is money well spent. Not only will it adorn my table, it will do my heart good too. And that's what I want most. I'll post a pic one day soon. Here are other things I spend my drug money on:
Floaty Scarves, older ladies beauty creams from Sainsburys, red colanders, filthy sex wear and vegetable peelers.
I feel a list coming on...

Weather report: Sunny, chilly.
Financial report: Has anyone got any money they don't want?
Body report: Knees good. Hands excellent. Eyes a bit ringed but bearable. In general, ageing but agile, bit like an old trapeze artiste.
Mind report: The above says it all.

Real Life

Enough of the poetry Glo. Get real. And real means grubbykins...

Cooking right now...Beef casserole. In the pot is about 1lb of stewing beef, untidily cut. Hacked at potatoes, obliquely sliced leeks and carrots, a slovenly chopped onion because I just don't care about onions no more. All this good food is paddling around in a pint..ish of beef stock, a bouquet garni, a rough splash of mushroom ketchup and a lot of black pepper. Later on, a lot later on I'll drop in six dumplings. My dumplings are small but swell well when pumped up by a good lashing of hot liquid.

I know that after eating this I'll say "I don't fancy pud". That will not only be a stupid utterance, it will turn out to be a lie too. Because after eating the soppy eyed cow I'll eat a bit of Queen of Puddings. A gooey, there's no other word for it, meringuey, custardy pud which makes my teeth chatter uncontrollably. Sugar is my most favourite thing on earth. And sausages. And cucumbers.
Talking of which....I bought half a cu today on account of the curry I'll be making this Saturday.

The cu won't be a cooked cu it will remain raw and cool and then enjoy veggie intercourse with a shaved carrot.
Thank you.

Arthur Rimbaud, Vagabond, Trader, Gunrunner, Poet.

Whilst prancing around in London yesterday I bought a long soft velvet boho scarf in shades of brown, green and gold. And as the wind swept me along the pavement I thought of these words from the French Poet Arthur Rimbaud. 1854-1891
"I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple, garlands from window to window, golden chains from star to star and I dance".
Beautiful.

Arthur was 'an alchemist who played with words' (Katinka Matson. Short Lives) I play with words too, but unlike Arthur can't turn the ordinary into the magnificent.
After a bright yellow breakfast of eggs, lemon curd and orange juice I'll dance around Sainsbury's wearing my scarf. Then home in the rain to tetchy Monty and politics.

Scorched Stuff

I made some strange cakes yesterday. They were a cross between a muffin and a doughnut, so I've decided to call them Muffnuts:)

My consuming passion is er....consuming! And as a result have spent far too much time in the kitchen creating all sorts of weird stuff. I suppose cooking IS creative although I don't always see it that way especially when things stick on the bottom of saucepans like my onion sauce did yesterday. I'd sweated the wretched onions for ages, then added stock, tomato ketchup, oregano, Worcestershire sauce and other stuff. Then I made a mistake....I popped into the office....Oh dear.

As you all know one can get carried away on line and so when I finally remembered the sauce I shot up from my chair only to find a rapidly reduced sauce and Monty looking posh on the back of his chair. It's at times like this, when I think a hound might come in useful. This hound would have been trained to alert me when cakes, buns and sauces start to turn black. But that's just phooey because I would rather have a scorched sausage and a pussy than a perfect pie and a poochie.

Nonsensical Stuff now:
If I changed my name I'd change it to Josephine Wack,
I cuddled a cat yesterday and it wasn't Monty.
Pigeons are so predictable. But lovable.
Girls who giggle need a slap. Giggling is annoying to oldies because it reminds them of their youth.
Monkeys are dangerous when aroused. All their pornography should be shredded.
Old people should be restrained especially in August. They do so clog up the parks.
Men under fifty should have my address.
Men over fifty shouldn't.
That's enough nonsense for today. Possibly more tomorrow.

On the menu today: Perfect Chicken in a Perfect Sauce....

True Love

Today is the start of British Pie Week.
The pie has been hanging around our midriffs since the 12th century, and it's allure shows no sign of diminishing.
The photo is of one of my creations, a beef and vegetable pie. There's something terribly medieval about the pastry, don't you think?


My darling Pie

When did I fall in love with you?
Was it at Simpsons in the Strand or in the little cafe on the seafront in Southend? Whenever and wherever it was, that day or night was the happiest moment of my life. I remember how I felt when you were in front of me, your handsome warm brown face and beautiful bulging body tempting me, willing me, to indulge like never before. And so I did.

I know other things have come into my life as they surely must, and some of them have left me giddy with their opulence and newness, but you, my darling Pie, always satisfied me, leaving me full and aching for more. Even though I knew you were bad for me and would probably do me harm, I could never say no to you.

Do you remember one Friday night in June? I do.
I was in a silly girlish mood, dressed to seduce in the kitchen of love, and as I laid you on my table, your heat took my breath away. God, I wanted you that night. I needed your hot cherry. You stared up at me, willing me tantalizing me, begging me to break you, to eat you. And I did. Your juice lay on my lips and as I sucked you in, all I wanted to do was swallow. And I did.

But then the nights drew in and my sweet cherry pie boy grew up and instead of kissing a sweet lad I devoured a good load of beef. Some of those bitter, bone achingly cold evenings were almost unbearable, but you Pie, made them bearable. And on one night in December I sat watching snow fall waiting for you to rise, and as the hour of our intercourse grew nearer my heart thrashed in my chest because I knew that soon, very soon, I would have you. And I did.

Lovers will come and Lovers will go but you, Pie, will always be special.
On my lips and tongue you linger.

Love you to death...
Gloria x

Sunday's Are Such A Thing

Been up since some unearthly hour doing culinary things. Made an Apple Crumble, some sage and onion stuffing and then slaughtered some veg.
Got zillions more to do.
Things like rubbing a large bird. Looking in mirror sideways. Wondering why I bought silly crotchless tights.
Must dash.....