Communicative, 72 year old, 19 stone plumber at Henry's. The last type of person I needed today. But he did fix my hoover. Has a boat moored somewhere and talked incessantly.
Blair at the Iraq Inquiry. In the background as I clean up for the weekend. From sadness comes extreme activity and from activity, a little shine. As I wrung out my mop at the kitchen sink I saw a blackbird, a robin and a shower of snowflakes. Go away I said to the last one.
Henry was vodka quiet. Got no-one to go out with tomorrow night he said. No I can't I said. His parting shot was sweet. Get hammered darling.
No way will I get hammered. Might jump someone though and get in a pillow fight.
Now... Tea soaked sugar...:)
Friday, 29 January 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Glowing with the Light
Been looking through my albums and what calamitous joy some of the pictures are..
In some I resemble a little boy scouting around for a tanner, in others, a wet bitch queen roaming around for peasants to feed on, but this picture is my favourite.
The hot mama hair was considerably bigger and more ballsy than my usual skimpy Pixie affair and looked indeed deceptively darker than it really was. But yes I love this pic. So enamoured am I with this excellent photo that I've decided to stop the shearing, so no more Glo the shorn poet, from now on, Glo the bouffant blogger.
For fifty odd years I have had naturally brown hair, but not now, the old grey mare has galloped in, riding roughly through my locks leaving for dead my once warm nutty mane. However, it never looks grey when I have a photo taken and I've spent many a minute wondering why... Mr H's mantra is "It's all about lighting dear". Apparently, according to him, it's to do with ferocious light bulbs. In some pics he says I look French and earthy in others pale, wan. Very English Rose.
When I'm forced to go outside for a shoot, my hair sometimes scares me, because when I flick through the pics I see tons of old age stuff wiping out almost all of my girlie brownie bits, but I take comfort from the fact that as my complexion lightens due to horrid middle-age, having fairer hair will suit me.
And even though grey is associated with sticks and death, I won't dye it, can't bear the thought of wasting money on chemicals, which, I fear, will only emphasize my deteriorating face. No, I will instead, play wickedly in Mother Nature's nest of platinum.
And so as dogs bark and cats scream I'll sit on the edge of my bed flying a silver brush through my silver hair. I shall then, after washing with plain soap, cloud my face with shell pinks and dusky browns and cavort around town in clothes of languorous lilac and cock red
I'll wear black only if I'm in for the night.
Which reminds me I recently bought a dirty little black dress.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Hard of hearing Chloe so in love with the Rev
Reverend Bigger in bed
Internet cat being a naughty boy
Ectoplasmic Monty 
Internet Cat seen the light
Harry HillMonty is into women's clothes.
Every night he can be found pounding my apparel but why he does, baffles me. Might be a comfort thing I suppose. (See pic) Which shuffles me sweetly into the making of another list.
What comforts me:
A word from Mother. Hitting the spot leaving me savaged yet strangely comforted.
Good stupid films like Die Hard 4. Tonight.
Bananas on cinnamon toast. Like earlier when dressed like a drunk I sliced a whopper and drizzled honey all over the bread and floor.
Carrot cake. Like the one which is on the rack right now.
Dresses. Sultry, like the one dripping from its padded hanger. Right there.
Handbags. Like my tiny creamy furry one which is totally impractical but one which has impacted large.
Events. Where I can show my hospitality skills.
Hearing a fav song. Boys II Men's .'End of the Road' and Sam Cooke's 'A Change is Gonna Come' and anything by The Four Tops, Temptations etc. Black at its best.
Dancing. Haven't shimmied for a while and it's telling. Always loved to dance So really must get to an over 30's disco. Probably when I'm over 60.
An uplifting word from a pal. Words like 'fancy a chicken drumstick' ?
What I would take to the moon:
DVD player and films.
Books. Poetry. Wisdom. Art pics. Quotes
Camera. Get a good shot of earth and my lunar sandcastles
In ship psychiatrist. Got to send you bonkers up there.
Notebooks and a million pens.
Artificial Lilies.
Ceramic birds.
Stuffed cats.
Recordings of bird song.
Cup and saucer.
What makes me laugh
'Janine' in EastEnders. A one dimensional character who should have been clobbered years ago. Characters should never be wholly good or wholly bad.
Cats being cats.
Dogs who can't keep up with their eager owners.
Harry Hill. His Burp is too good for tea time telly.
Vibrators without batteries.
Bruce Almighty. Carey is scary. God is black and suited. Sublime.
Stephen Fry. Brilliance made to look easy.
Carry on Doctor. 'Reverend Bigger' (Frankie Howerd) and 'Chloe' (Joan Simms) stand out like a row of bandaged penises.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Not in the mood for excessively jolly posts, so for a while I'll be writing about food.
Borrowed a book from H's. Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book. Loads of recipes requiring calve's brains, pig's trotters and 'Moka' icing. Interesting read though.
According to Mrs B the mistress of the house should look after the servants, good ones are, after all, hard to find.
Crusty old biddy was Mrs B but knew a thing or two about broths and breakfasts.
I like her.
Being thrown around the kitchen tonight:
Fruity Indian chicken, Peshwari naans and plain rice. For pud: the last remaining dollops of Sunday's exceedingly flavoursome Black Forrest style trifle. Made using plain sponge filled with morello cherry jam, canned black cherries thickened and laced with a little almond essence and cornflour, then covered with chocolate custard and whipped cream. Disregarded any ornamentation, something this good didn't need it.
God I love to cook!
Mr H. is on lates for the rest of the week so, come 7ish, Monty and I will crash out with snacks, excellent movies and Boots 99p blue moisturiser.
Avon's wickedly expensive 'Reversalist' cream is for flaky peri-menopausal women who see a twenty pound note and think they're on a good income.
Boots bargain liquid is for women who accept they're creeping towards the grave and who, with pints of fizzing joy, secrete £5 notes in their draws.
:)
Borrowed a book from H's. Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book. Loads of recipes requiring calve's brains, pig's trotters and 'Moka' icing. Interesting read though.
According to Mrs B the mistress of the house should look after the servants, good ones are, after all, hard to find.
Crusty old biddy was Mrs B but knew a thing or two about broths and breakfasts.
I like her.
Being thrown around the kitchen tonight:
Fruity Indian chicken, Peshwari naans and plain rice. For pud: the last remaining dollops of Sunday's exceedingly flavoursome Black Forrest style trifle. Made using plain sponge filled with morello cherry jam, canned black cherries thickened and laced with a little almond essence and cornflour, then covered with chocolate custard and whipped cream. Disregarded any ornamentation, something this good didn't need it.
God I love to cook!
Mr H. is on lates for the rest of the week so, come 7ish, Monty and I will crash out with snacks, excellent movies and Boots 99p blue moisturiser.
Avon's wickedly expensive 'Reversalist' cream is for flaky peri-menopausal women who see a twenty pound note and think they're on a good income.
Boots bargain liquid is for women who accept they're creeping towards the grave and who, with pints of fizzing joy, secrete £5 notes in their draws.
:)
Friday, 22 January 2010
Pre-Mastermind Post
There's something not right with my computer. Spent ages dealing with 'infections' whatever they are and even now things are still not quite right. So if I disappear you'll know my intertubes are infested with the nasties!
On a lighter note, it's the weekend in about 5 hours and I will be donning a made-for-Glo-hat, courtesy of my sister-in-law the very talented Mrs Nof. Whether a picture will appear I just don't know, it depends on my eyes. Having had the most latest of nights last night (Mr H. not falling in till nearly 11) I am not at my bestist...
But, if after skating around Southend tomorrow I feel up to parading in front of a camera, I will post a pic. Of me in a hat. Or two...
On an even lighter note, went to the pics on Wednesday to see 'Daybreakers'. It is a film about vampires and stars the always creepy Sam Neil and Willem Dafoe.
Cinematography was brilliant, script good, acting good, wardrobe excellent. Loved the clothes, a mishmash of 1930's gangsters, cool cops and eco nutters. The most remarkable thing was that it had echoes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Most impressive.
There were some visually stunning scenes... A huge armoured vehicle was dragging in its wake a moaning dying bunch of chained people who had been vampirized, and as they came out into the sunlight they exploded into blazing flames. I felt sorry for them. Quite impressive.
I'm looking forward to the sequel...
Talking of silly movies, 'Devils Advocate' is on tv tonight. The yellow toothed Al Pacino hams it up as Old Nick, the lead girl has her head shorn which results in the memorable line from Keanu Reeves..."That's not a hairstyle, that's trauma"
Or something like that...
Utter Hollywood hokum at its finest. I seem to remember there are a lot of weird birds in it also. Absolutely cannot watch it though because it's on too late for me, but will record it so I have something gross for the weekend!
Figuring large this weekend:
Beansprouts.
On a lighter note, it's the weekend in about 5 hours and I will be donning a made-for-Glo-hat, courtesy of my sister-in-law the very talented Mrs Nof. Whether a picture will appear I just don't know, it depends on my eyes. Having had the most latest of nights last night (Mr H. not falling in till nearly 11) I am not at my bestist...
But, if after skating around Southend tomorrow I feel up to parading in front of a camera, I will post a pic. Of me in a hat. Or two...
On an even lighter note, went to the pics on Wednesday to see 'Daybreakers'. It is a film about vampires and stars the always creepy Sam Neil and Willem Dafoe.
Cinematography was brilliant, script good, acting good, wardrobe excellent. Loved the clothes, a mishmash of 1930's gangsters, cool cops and eco nutters. The most remarkable thing was that it had echoes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Most impressive.
There were some visually stunning scenes... A huge armoured vehicle was dragging in its wake a moaning dying bunch of chained people who had been vampirized, and as they came out into the sunlight they exploded into blazing flames. I felt sorry for them. Quite impressive.
I'm looking forward to the sequel...
Talking of silly movies, 'Devils Advocate' is on tv tonight. The yellow toothed Al Pacino hams it up as Old Nick, the lead girl has her head shorn which results in the memorable line from Keanu Reeves..."That's not a hairstyle, that's trauma"
Or something like that...
Utter Hollywood hokum at its finest. I seem to remember there are a lot of weird birds in it also. Absolutely cannot watch it though because it's on too late for me, but will record it so I have something gross for the weekend!
Figuring large this weekend:
Beansprouts.
Laurence
He was tall
was Laurence
dressed like an acting man
loads of noise
endless elderly Judas kissed scripts
intent on driving sugar coated daggers into vulnerable women.
but he wore no make-up or dusted no Oscar
thank God
He was immaculate
was Laurence
crisp in righteous white and perfect man blue
no Virgin Matey or I.T. bod
but filing female names
for pulling out on empty days
He homilised
did Laurence
but no St. John or tambourine man.
offering to women essential succulent salvation
come unto me
rallying their hearts with boom boom jokes
he operated a one man support system
He loved around
pearls being not his only gift necklace
spit threaded with gratuitous whispers also lubricated
arriving with a smile of expensive teeth
he misrepresented himself always
leaving the gal with a problem
but no poems or originality.
He could talk
could Laurence
self-proclaimed visionary, bleeding idiot, man on the Clapham omnibus
but not a proper thinker or tenderiser
he mock listened as their heads inclined
as knees parted
He stalked women
on the edge of their crumbling verges
his arms outstretched my dear
love was not however ever in his vocab
just 30 humps and an occasional thump
down his localised ordinary road
But
Laurence was paralysed one day
when the god of love finally fired his rusting arrow
shooting a holy load into the fraudsters heart
and seeping and weeping
Laurence stumbled around without a sodding clue
He twisted, twirled, danced like a drunk
in love like never before
Laurence, now a true romantic, grew in the warmth of his 'fanny girl'
offering her his life and three hot meals
he even wrote his sister 'She is just lovely''
But Laurence sat gaping like a dying fish
as 'the one' his 'hot cherry pie' mimed 'I don't love you'
He was tall
was Laurence
so his tears had a long long way to fall
and not a single, divorced, married or lonely soul was on hand, available
to watch them drop
thank God...
Angela Norris
was Laurence
dressed like an acting man
loads of noise
endless elderly Judas kissed scripts
intent on driving sugar coated daggers into vulnerable women.
but he wore no make-up or dusted no Oscar
thank God
He was immaculate
was Laurence
crisp in righteous white and perfect man blue
no Virgin Matey or I.T. bod
but filing female names
for pulling out on empty days
He homilised
did Laurence
but no St. John or tambourine man.
offering to women essential succulent salvation
come unto me
rallying their hearts with boom boom jokes
he operated a one man support system
He loved around
pearls being not his only gift necklace
spit threaded with gratuitous whispers also lubricated
arriving with a smile of expensive teeth
he misrepresented himself always
leaving the gal with a problem
but no poems or originality.
He could talk
could Laurence
self-proclaimed visionary, bleeding idiot, man on the Clapham omnibus
but not a proper thinker or tenderiser
he mock listened as their heads inclined
as knees parted
He stalked women
on the edge of their crumbling verges
his arms outstretched my dear
love was not however ever in his vocab
just 30 humps and an occasional thump
down his localised ordinary road
But
Laurence was paralysed one day
when the god of love finally fired his rusting arrow
shooting a holy load into the fraudsters heart
and seeping and weeping
Laurence stumbled around without a sodding clue
He twisted, twirled, danced like a drunk
in love like never before
Laurence, now a true romantic, grew in the warmth of his 'fanny girl'
offering her his life and three hot meals
he even wrote his sister 'She is just lovely''
But Laurence sat gaping like a dying fish
as 'the one' his 'hot cherry pie' mimed 'I don't love you'
He was tall
was Laurence
so his tears had a long long way to fall
and not a single, divorced, married or lonely soul was on hand, available
to watch them drop
thank God...
Angela Norris
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Poem coming tomorrow. It is rubbish. It is not good enough. I hate it. But I had to write it. Writing it was like trying to escape the hands of a murderer.
I sometimes wish I wasn't creative.
To be unable to express my feelings in verse would, I think, be a blessing.
To not feel anything at all would be perfect.
I sometimes wish I wasn't creative.
To be unable to express my feelings in verse would, I think, be a blessing.
To not feel anything at all would be perfect.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Just Another Day At The Sink
I'm Henry's housekeeper. It's official.
I know that because that was how he described me this morning when an irate ex-employee popped round for a little chat...
"Tell 'them' " Henry said gently "That you couldn't see me because my housekeeper wouldn't let you in."
The loud man stood in the middle of the kitchen taking up a lot of space, he was livid yet had the calmness of a man on a mission, of a man intent on getting his point across, so being a housekeeper of some quality I legged it upstairs while they slugged it out.
After a little while I came down and the shouting man was still shouting but after a few soothing words from H, he left, apologising to me for any disturbance caused.
Henry meanwhile sat fuming, plotting revenge.
Now I know why he keeps a cosh by his bed.
On a less fraught note, I'm loving Radio 4's 'A History of the World in 100 Objects'. Today's object being a stone cutting tool.
Radio 4, a small quiet place for people of quality.
I know that because that was how he described me this morning when an irate ex-employee popped round for a little chat...
"Tell 'them' " Henry said gently "That you couldn't see me because my housekeeper wouldn't let you in."
The loud man stood in the middle of the kitchen taking up a lot of space, he was livid yet had the calmness of a man on a mission, of a man intent on getting his point across, so being a housekeeper of some quality I legged it upstairs while they slugged it out.
After a little while I came down and the shouting man was still shouting but after a few soothing words from H, he left, apologising to me for any disturbance caused.
Henry meanwhile sat fuming, plotting revenge.
Now I know why he keeps a cosh by his bed.
On a less fraught note, I'm loving Radio 4's 'A History of the World in 100 Objects'. Today's object being a stone cutting tool.
Radio 4, a small quiet place for people of quality.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Woman's Day
Will dash about a bit this morning in order for me to enjoy an afternoon all to myself. Already done some major home stuff and so with not much more to do will endeavour to be stuck like a fly on a jam jar by 2 this afternoon in front of the telly.
One of my favourite made-for-tv movies is on C5 at 3.
'A Cooler Climate' starring Judy Davis and Sally Field is a delicious womanly film about two very disparate ladies who meet and realize that they have a lot more in common than first seemed. Both actresses were nominated for an Emmy for their roles in this classy, well scripted film. The setting is not new York but a staid, low key coastal village, and maybe that's why I like it. Judy Davis is breathtaking as the lonely big shot business woman whose hubby is being a naughty boy and whose daughter is a real bitch and Sally Field is the homemaker who has run away to find a new life as a housekeeper to Davis , after having her heart kicked to death and her bank account emptied by a toy boy.
The film is packed with tender moments and moments of mutual acute realization where both characters have to deal with all that they are and all that they have become.
It is a first rate film and I refuse to call it a chick flick because it goes far beyond that sort of nonsense. These are believable characters who you wouldn't mind having a coffee with.
Now I have to go. Got another five things to do before I can cook myself some steak and chips and go to the movies. In my front room.
One of my favourite made-for-tv movies is on C5 at 3.
'A Cooler Climate' starring Judy Davis and Sally Field is a delicious womanly film about two very disparate ladies who meet and realize that they have a lot more in common than first seemed. Both actresses were nominated for an Emmy for their roles in this classy, well scripted film. The setting is not new York but a staid, low key coastal village, and maybe that's why I like it. Judy Davis is breathtaking as the lonely big shot business woman whose hubby is being a naughty boy and whose daughter is a real bitch and Sally Field is the homemaker who has run away to find a new life as a housekeeper to Davis , after having her heart kicked to death and her bank account emptied by a toy boy.
The film is packed with tender moments and moments of mutual acute realization where both characters have to deal with all that they are and all that they have become.
It is a first rate film and I refuse to call it a chick flick because it goes far beyond that sort of nonsense. These are believable characters who you wouldn't mind having a coffee with.
Now I have to go. Got another five things to do before I can cook myself some steak and chips and go to the movies. In my front room.
Monday, 18 January 2010
I Knew Her When She Sewed
After a humdrum day I sat quietly and, drawing on all my knowledge, finished a poem I'd been working on for a while.
It's dedicated to my friend 'D'. She's read it of course and given her approval...
omg, I"m crying
That is beautiful
How perfect
Just perfect
Thank you, Angie
I love it.
I Knew Her When She Sewed
I knew her when she sewed,
when homemaker was her title
when chains of restrictions hung round her neck
keeping her in place
making certain she'd not stick out her head, get ahead
likening her to a beast of burden
I knew her when she sewed
Some days when the sun shone
gardener was her title
given a moment she'd drink a beer,
hoping the non-stop flow would kick start her heart
keeping her just alive so she could do so many more jobs
likening her to a workhorse
I knew her when she dug
And then on an unforgettable day in May
the homemaker left brighty whitey soap suds to pop and gleam alone
and watched as the well tamed earth in her perfect pasture, rotted away
then, the homemakers hand's, softening all of a sudden in perfumed lotion,
let rip with the apron
showing a mind willing to risk
showing breasts fit for feeling
The homemaker was surprised by someone else's hands and head
he took her to his land, she, struck by tenderness, was left humbled by open ears and big ideas,
and she was, as cars roared, silenced by desk appreciation
ok
she'd been gloriously fucked in mind and body
no more an after-the-late-show bang bang
and, the next morning, as the cock yelled,
no more will-you-shut-the-fuck-ups
The wife,
the gardener,
the name on the marriage certificate,
the homemaker made mad by contempt
well she had sewn a brave new love
The runaround woman with a thousand to-do's and no thank-you's
will, come a Summer's day soon,
spit out the thread
gouge out the dirt
change the name
and rise...
Angela Norris
It's dedicated to my friend 'D'. She's read it of course and given her approval...
omg, I"m crying
That is beautiful
How perfect
Just perfect
Thank you, Angie
I love it.
I Knew Her When She Sewed
I knew her when she sewed,
when homemaker was her title
when chains of restrictions hung round her neck
keeping her in place
making certain she'd not stick out her head, get ahead
likening her to a beast of burden
I knew her when she sewed
Some days when the sun shone
gardener was her title
given a moment she'd drink a beer,
hoping the non-stop flow would kick start her heart
keeping her just alive so she could do so many more jobs
likening her to a workhorse
I knew her when she dug
And then on an unforgettable day in May
the homemaker left brighty whitey soap suds to pop and gleam alone
and watched as the well tamed earth in her perfect pasture, rotted away
then, the homemakers hand's, softening all of a sudden in perfumed lotion,
let rip with the apron
showing a mind willing to risk
showing breasts fit for feeling
The homemaker was surprised by someone else's hands and head
he took her to his land, she, struck by tenderness, was left humbled by open ears and big ideas,
and she was, as cars roared, silenced by desk appreciation
ok
she'd been gloriously fucked in mind and body
no more an after-the-late-show bang bang
and, the next morning, as the cock yelled,
no more will-you-shut-the-fuck-ups
The wife,
the gardener,
the name on the marriage certificate,
the homemaker made mad by contempt
well she had sewn a brave new love
The runaround woman with a thousand to-do's and no thank-you's
will, come a Summer's day soon,
spit out the thread
gouge out the dirt
change the name
and rise...
Angela Norris
Mark Selby and I slept well. But for very different reasons.
He for knocking out O'Sullivan, me for just being very good.
Today I'll be ultra busy on account of lugging to H's... a half cucumber, a bottle of bleach and 12 smooth meatballs.
Their tea will be meatballs in a tomato sauce with farfalle
Their dessert? Squeeze some whipped cream between two bananas and drizzle melted choc on the top. No nuts though. Common.
Avon Calling...
Last week I bought some 'Reversalist' anti-ageing stuff.
It comes in a long, shiny, red, pump action phallic like cannister, so every night this week I've been awash with serum.
And that's fine with me because I now look like a 16 year old but with 37 years experience:)
Cooking tonight? Haven't got a clue darling.
He for knocking out O'Sullivan, me for just being very good.
Today I'll be ultra busy on account of lugging to H's... a half cucumber, a bottle of bleach and 12 smooth meatballs.
Their tea will be meatballs in a tomato sauce with farfalle
Their dessert? Squeeze some whipped cream between two bananas and drizzle melted choc on the top. No nuts though. Common.
Avon Calling...
Last week I bought some 'Reversalist' anti-ageing stuff.
It comes in a long, shiny, red, pump action phallic like cannister, so every night this week I've been awash with serum.
And that's fine with me because I now look like a 16 year old but with 37 years experience:)
Cooking tonight? Haven't got a clue darling.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
8 for 123
Tinkered with too many Japanese Rice Crackers last night. Which was a surprise because the fruity Indian chicken was very satisfying. But watching a movie without nibbles is unthinkable and impossible.
The Taking of Pelham 123 bore no resemblance to the original P123 and that was ok with me. I decided to put it in one of the dusty alcoves in my rapidly rotting mind. I thought the new version was showered in too much gloss and smart-arse camera games but outstanding performances from the two leads, Denzel Washington and John Travolta managed to mucky up nicely the over the top production. I loved it.
Denzel was unbelievably brilliant as portly middle-aged Garber, so mesmerizing was his act that he almost knocked the original Garber off the stage. Almost. Travolta was deliciously wicked as the nutcase, his sweet, heart to hearts with Garber were for me, the highlights of the film. If I had to give out of ten for the film I'd be as generous as always and give an eight.
Not many re-makes are as good as their original but I watched this movie with an open mind as well as an open mouth. The blistering bloody shoot-out at the end reminded me a little of the fabulously erotic shoot-out in HEAT. Jumping bodies littered with holes bouncing around the grit of a New York street. Great stuff.
So if you like breakneck speed action, first rate acting, a cool script and a surprising end, watch it.
Today no films will be watched on account of the snooker. Smouldering joker Mark Selby will, I hope, thrash O'Sullivan. I'm not really in the mood for a lengthy edge-of-seat match, more wishing for a clean clinical annihilation.
Roasting today:
Half leg of Lamb, Honeyed Parsnips, Peas and Tatties. For pud: Apple Shortbread with a spoonful of thick cream.
Supper: The dustings at the bottom of the cracker bag I expect!
The Taking of Pelham 123 bore no resemblance to the original P123 and that was ok with me. I decided to put it in one of the dusty alcoves in my rapidly rotting mind. I thought the new version was showered in too much gloss and smart-arse camera games but outstanding performances from the two leads, Denzel Washington and John Travolta managed to mucky up nicely the over the top production. I loved it.
Denzel was unbelievably brilliant as portly middle-aged Garber, so mesmerizing was his act that he almost knocked the original Garber off the stage. Almost. Travolta was deliciously wicked as the nutcase, his sweet, heart to hearts with Garber were for me, the highlights of the film. If I had to give out of ten for the film I'd be as generous as always and give an eight.
Not many re-makes are as good as their original but I watched this movie with an open mind as well as an open mouth. The blistering bloody shoot-out at the end reminded me a little of the fabulously erotic shoot-out in HEAT. Jumping bodies littered with holes bouncing around the grit of a New York street. Great stuff.
So if you like breakneck speed action, first rate acting, a cool script and a surprising end, watch it.
Today no films will be watched on account of the snooker. Smouldering joker Mark Selby will, I hope, thrash O'Sullivan. I'm not really in the mood for a lengthy edge-of-seat match, more wishing for a clean clinical annihilation.
Roasting today:
Half leg of Lamb, Honeyed Parsnips, Peas and Tatties. For pud: Apple Shortbread with a spoonful of thick cream.
Supper: The dustings at the bottom of the cracker bag I expect!
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Snooker's bad boy, Ronnie O'Sullivan is playing the Welsh potting machine, Mark Williams in the first of today's semi-finals. Never once have I supported either men, but on this occasion I'll be rooting for Williams.
Because to me, O'Sullivan has the look of a man whose done a deal with the devil.
His lifeless post match interviews show his contempt for the interviewers questions, he grunts as he slouches and finds it almost impossible to look anyone in the eye. Especially Steve Davis.
O'Sullivan is rotten to the core.
Mark Williams can play when he wants to, I'm hoping the Welshman plays today...
Tonight the man with spicy eyes, Mark 'the jester from Leicester' Selby takes on Stephen Maguire the man who is a bit of a crook. I want Mark to win for three reasons. 1. He laughs a lot even when things are going wrong. 2. He'll not easily be swayed by the partisan crowd if he meets O'Sullivan in the final and 3. He smoulders.
Yes I know that's not reason enough to support someone but what the heck, he's so good to look at.
Cooking tonight is a concoction. I've chopped, diced and sliced some chicken breasts, red peppers, chestnut mushrooms and two bananas and covered them in a marinade of orange juice, mango chutney, brown sugar, lemon juice and curry paste.
I'll make a pilau rice to serve with it along with some garlic and coriander naan bread.
To drink?
Nothing alcoholic, just a coke with ice and a slice.
To watch?
Yesterday I fell for the oldest marketing trick in the book. As I was making my way out of Sainsbury's I saw, by Customer Services, a large stand bearing loads of DVD's. And being a little tyke I handed over some money to big Cath on the till and bought "The Taking of Pelham 123".
John Travolta as the bad guy and Denzel Washington as good boy Garber, sounds like heaven to an old queen like me.
Now back to where I came in. Snooker. At the moment the score is 3-3. With O'Sullivan at the table shouldn't it be 666?
Because to me, O'Sullivan has the look of a man whose done a deal with the devil.
His lifeless post match interviews show his contempt for the interviewers questions, he grunts as he slouches and finds it almost impossible to look anyone in the eye. Especially Steve Davis.
O'Sullivan is rotten to the core.
Mark Williams can play when he wants to, I'm hoping the Welshman plays today...
Tonight the man with spicy eyes, Mark 'the jester from Leicester' Selby takes on Stephen Maguire the man who is a bit of a crook. I want Mark to win for three reasons. 1. He laughs a lot even when things are going wrong. 2. He'll not easily be swayed by the partisan crowd if he meets O'Sullivan in the final and 3. He smoulders.
Yes I know that's not reason enough to support someone but what the heck, he's so good to look at.
Cooking tonight is a concoction. I've chopped, diced and sliced some chicken breasts, red peppers, chestnut mushrooms and two bananas and covered them in a marinade of orange juice, mango chutney, brown sugar, lemon juice and curry paste.
I'll make a pilau rice to serve with it along with some garlic and coriander naan bread.
To drink?
Nothing alcoholic, just a coke with ice and a slice.
To watch?
Yesterday I fell for the oldest marketing trick in the book. As I was making my way out of Sainsbury's I saw, by Customer Services, a large stand bearing loads of DVD's. And being a little tyke I handed over some money to big Cath on the till and bought "The Taking of Pelham 123".
John Travolta as the bad guy and Denzel Washington as good boy Garber, sounds like heaven to an old queen like me.
Now back to where I came in. Snooker. At the moment the score is 3-3. With O'Sullivan at the table shouldn't it be 666?
Friday, 15 January 2010
Doing an afternoon stint at Henry's instead of my usual morning stint proved successful.
I had the pleasure of the cats company and not Henry's because he, the poor bounder, was a little out of it...I tiptoed into his room just as the cock crowed twelve and found him very flushed and out of sorts.
He blessed me with a 'good morning' and I never saw him again till 5.
Happy days.
I didn't have an awful lot to do today on account of me being uber efficient on Wednesday, so after preparing his tea I shoved a few boxes into the study and sat with the cats watching the snooker.
My breathing was good too, unlike yesterday when I thought I was going to pass out, so tight was my chest, but today everything was in full working order. It's funny how watching two snooker players opens up the airways. I was very relaxed.
After a couple of hours of doing nothing I bounced into the kitchen to cook Henry and Walt's lamb's liver tea. I'd no sooner singed the onions when Walt waddled in, and we were very soon engaged in chit chat about drunken bin men, his hopes for a new residence and my cooking. Meanwhile the big man snoozed...
I served Walt his dinner and put H's in the microwave ready for him to nuke when he felt like it, probably some time after nine. Then, just as Ging made an appearance, Henry did too, he looked a trifle horrible. That's Henry, not Ging.
"Hello Darling, God you like nice in that pink jumper" he said twiddling with his braces
"I'm sleepy and heading home" I said seductively, waving my car keys in his face like a dirty bell ringer.
"Stay and have a cuppa" he coughed
"No thank you, I'm about ready to fry the blood out of some steak, your liver, by the way, is in the machine, he he he he he!!!
And then he asked if I'd go with him to a quiz night tonight because the lady he was going to take has disappeared...
"No" was my curt reply "I don't play second fiddle to old girls".
I loathe being anyone's after thought.
While all this sweet talk scented the air, Walt gobbled his trifle.
"Ah man she's a divine cook".
I'd had a dead easy day within the castle walls, I'd nattered to the cats, had a chicken cuppa soup and snookered the afternoon away with my chest bopping up and down like a pretty pink balloon:)
I had the pleasure of the cats company and not Henry's because he, the poor bounder, was a little out of it...I tiptoed into his room just as the cock crowed twelve and found him very flushed and out of sorts.
He blessed me with a 'good morning' and I never saw him again till 5.
Happy days.
I didn't have an awful lot to do today on account of me being uber efficient on Wednesday, so after preparing his tea I shoved a few boxes into the study and sat with the cats watching the snooker.
My breathing was good too, unlike yesterday when I thought I was going to pass out, so tight was my chest, but today everything was in full working order. It's funny how watching two snooker players opens up the airways. I was very relaxed.
After a couple of hours of doing nothing I bounced into the kitchen to cook Henry and Walt's lamb's liver tea. I'd no sooner singed the onions when Walt waddled in, and we were very soon engaged in chit chat about drunken bin men, his hopes for a new residence and my cooking. Meanwhile the big man snoozed...
I served Walt his dinner and put H's in the microwave ready for him to nuke when he felt like it, probably some time after nine. Then, just as Ging made an appearance, Henry did too, he looked a trifle horrible. That's Henry, not Ging.
"Hello Darling, God you like nice in that pink jumper" he said twiddling with his braces
"I'm sleepy and heading home" I said seductively, waving my car keys in his face like a dirty bell ringer.
"Stay and have a cuppa" he coughed
"No thank you, I'm about ready to fry the blood out of some steak, your liver, by the way, is in the machine, he he he he he!!!
And then he asked if I'd go with him to a quiz night tonight because the lady he was going to take has disappeared...
"No" was my curt reply "I don't play second fiddle to old girls".
I loathe being anyone's after thought.
While all this sweet talk scented the air, Walt gobbled his trifle.
"Ah man she's a divine cook".
I'd had a dead easy day within the castle walls, I'd nattered to the cats, had a chicken cuppa soup and snookered the afternoon away with my chest bopping up and down like a pretty pink balloon:)
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Things To Come...
1.
American Idol. Tonight. Bright young American things showing off their talent or lack of!
2.
Spring. Daffodils. Swooshing skirts in colours of violet, cobalt blue and rose pink. Brighter skies and longer days.
3.
London. Tomorrow. Heavy with coats. Heavy with bags. Post-Christmas gifts such as pink-petalled flower vase, ladies' magazines, Victoria sponge, and all the news from dismal Essex.
Cooking tonight; Chicken breast in a sweet sticky sauce with fried rice. Followed by chocolate pudding with chocolate sauce.
American Idol. Tonight. Bright young American things showing off their talent or lack of!
2.
Spring. Daffodils. Swooshing skirts in colours of violet, cobalt blue and rose pink. Brighter skies and longer days.
3.
London. Tomorrow. Heavy with coats. Heavy with bags. Post-Christmas gifts such as pink-petalled flower vase, ladies' magazines, Victoria sponge, and all the news from dismal Essex.
Cooking tonight; Chicken breast in a sweet sticky sauce with fried rice. Followed by chocolate pudding with chocolate sauce.
Monday, 11 January 2010
A Little Touch. Poem
A little touch
at the right time
saves the girl
The night was cold when he came
fucking the plains of
the girl's untrodden snow
his boots cut a path
to his baba's heart
Within her crowded room
was the preciseness of a unused bed
its old yellowing quilt
dying to be stamped on
likewise the girl
screws missing from the draw
made it rattle, stick and groan
likewise the girl
Letting in a slice of warm hall light
he stood polished like a god
with nothing in his pockets
there she is
Sitting on her quilt like a miniature bride
outstretching a hand letting it fall
unhurried into its proper home
his...
Tender togetherness not indifference was what they had
and a little touch
at the right time
saved them
at the right time
saves the girl
The night was cold when he came
fucking the plains of
the girl's untrodden snow
his boots cut a path
to his baba's heart
Within her crowded room
was the preciseness of a unused bed
its old yellowing quilt
dying to be stamped on
likewise the girl
screws missing from the draw
made it rattle, stick and groan
likewise the girl
Letting in a slice of warm hall light
he stood polished like a god
with nothing in his pockets
there she is
Sitting on her quilt like a miniature bride
outstretching a hand letting it fall
unhurried into its proper home
his...
Tender togetherness not indifference was what they had
and a little touch
at the right time
saved them
The arrows have flown now bring on the balls.
Fascinating weekend was had by young Glo.
Saturday being very sweet and Sunday seeing me drilling the air with my little fists.
The most unladylike behaviour was on account of watching Dave 'Chizzy' Chisnall giving Martin 'Wolfie' Adams a rollicking run for his money. And although my Dave lost he won a lot of admirers. Me being one of them. The yellow shirted Lancs lad gave Adams some serious frights by sticking with him right to the end. There was no white wash at Lakeside.
I had settled myself on the settee with a box of After Eight mints hoping to see Adams get slaughtered by the non-talking Chisnall but it wasn't to be be. But I loved and devoured every hour of it. I'm in my element when the money is down and like all sensible gamblers will now move swiftly on to a new speculative venture and in so doing demolish the pain of being out of pocket.
The 'Masters' snooker is on t.v. this week and next.
I see a trip to Corals on the cards...
Saturday being very sweet and Sunday seeing me drilling the air with my little fists.
The most unladylike behaviour was on account of watching Dave 'Chizzy' Chisnall giving Martin 'Wolfie' Adams a rollicking run for his money. And although my Dave lost he won a lot of admirers. Me being one of them. The yellow shirted Lancs lad gave Adams some serious frights by sticking with him right to the end. There was no white wash at Lakeside.
I had settled myself on the settee with a box of After Eight mints hoping to see Adams get slaughtered by the non-talking Chisnall but it wasn't to be be. But I loved and devoured every hour of it. I'm in my element when the money is down and like all sensible gamblers will now move swiftly on to a new speculative venture and in so doing demolish the pain of being out of pocket.
The 'Masters' snooker is on t.v. this week and next.
I see a trip to Corals on the cards...
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Glo in the Snow
What a glorious morning I've had.
First of all took a leisurely drive to Sainsbury's...
Then on the way home skipped into Corals splashing out some serious cash on Dave Chisnall. Took a good price too.
Dave is playing Tony O'Shea this afternoon in the first of the semi finals of the B.D.O. World Darts Championship. I will therefore, after cooking some sausages and eggs, be pinioned to the telly. No checking of emails or responding to any form of interweb messaging nor answering any of my phones.
In other words my soul will be on the oche.
When we came out of Corals, Mr H. with his ever ready camera, took these photos. I have to say I'm wearing well...!!!
Friday, 8 January 2010
With The Snow Comes Silence
I noticed that as I waltzed with my car this morning, I was dancing alone. Admittedly it's a short journey to the castle but nevertheless I thought I'd at least see a trussed up elderly gentlemen dragging his dog. But no, I saw nothing. No children, no mums, not even the postman. The distance between my bungalow and Henry's castle was bleaktown. Totally free of people and cars, in fact it was like someone had taken a Winter nature photo and superimposed it onto the roads and streets. Frost covered houses, distraught overflowing bins, green gardens turned into wonderlands for the out-of-sight birds, patches of black where a car had been parked, and nothing but frozen white immaculate pavements with very few footprints.
The snow had indeed left its almighty mark and silenced everything except for the crunchy crunch of crazed wheels on black ice.
I arrived a touch earlier than usual on account of me wanting to get away a touch earlier. Well that didn't work out at all!
After first looking for the cats I proceeded to make some sausagemeat pasta, put 24 tins of Felix away, and chat with Henry...He wants me to rifle through boxes looking for some of his son's documents. Ok, but the boxes are in the garage which is down the road by the school. I'd do it I said, for a price. We agreed on the pittance and the boxes will be seen to some time in the future. Meanwhile will I put his daughter's clothes in boxes. Oh yes and for free. The fact she'll be out of the way is payment enough. What is it about this family and boxes?
I rather like the idea of the house being a daughter-free zone, it's one less room to do and one less person to agitate the cats. Yes, her clothes will be attended to on Monday.
Blackie and Ging made several appearances during the course of the morning, even jumping up onto the kitchen table when Henry and I were chatting about: Loyalty, money and diseases. They've come a long way since I first made their acquaintance, no more do they diss their master instead they're into violently rubbing themselves up against his legs and chest. And the master is well pleased with their progress. He asked me to put the pink collar back onto Ging and with a tut I did. She was, I'm pleased to report, ok about it, so I was relieved. I had a little treat up my sleave for them today, after preparing Henry and Walt's dinner I called out like an idiot asking Blackie and Ging if they'd like a tin of toony woony.
They licked and scoffed the gold rimmed plate clean, tuna will now be their three times a week treat...
After several pots of tea Henry said he'd love a bacon and broken egg sandwich, so one was made and drooled over. I too had a sandwich, but I plumped for a BLT. By this time I was ready to come home so I squeezed and kissed the cats whispering into their tiny ears that they were to do whatever they wanted never mind about Henry. Ging then fell to the ground and whacked a hanging pink feathered toy whilst Blackie's eyes remained half- closed as I slobbered over his head like a sad old woman who has finally lost her ancient marbles.
Driving home I saw no-one.
The steering wheel going one way and the wheels having other ideas. Horrible. But with the danger came an unearthly silence that only snow brings...
Tonight I'll be cooking a beef cobbler.
Simple food, perfect for a Winter's night.
I might have a drop of brandy in my coffee too!
The snow had indeed left its almighty mark and silenced everything except for the crunchy crunch of crazed wheels on black ice.
I arrived a touch earlier than usual on account of me wanting to get away a touch earlier. Well that didn't work out at all!
After first looking for the cats I proceeded to make some sausagemeat pasta, put 24 tins of Felix away, and chat with Henry...He wants me to rifle through boxes looking for some of his son's documents. Ok, but the boxes are in the garage which is down the road by the school. I'd do it I said, for a price. We agreed on the pittance and the boxes will be seen to some time in the future. Meanwhile will I put his daughter's clothes in boxes. Oh yes and for free. The fact she'll be out of the way is payment enough. What is it about this family and boxes?
I rather like the idea of the house being a daughter-free zone, it's one less room to do and one less person to agitate the cats. Yes, her clothes will be attended to on Monday.
Blackie and Ging made several appearances during the course of the morning, even jumping up onto the kitchen table when Henry and I were chatting about: Loyalty, money and diseases. They've come a long way since I first made their acquaintance, no more do they diss their master instead they're into violently rubbing themselves up against his legs and chest. And the master is well pleased with their progress. He asked me to put the pink collar back onto Ging and with a tut I did. She was, I'm pleased to report, ok about it, so I was relieved. I had a little treat up my sleave for them today, after preparing Henry and Walt's dinner I called out like an idiot asking Blackie and Ging if they'd like a tin of toony woony.
They licked and scoffed the gold rimmed plate clean, tuna will now be their three times a week treat...
After several pots of tea Henry said he'd love a bacon and broken egg sandwich, so one was made and drooled over. I too had a sandwich, but I plumped for a BLT. By this time I was ready to come home so I squeezed and kissed the cats whispering into their tiny ears that they were to do whatever they wanted never mind about Henry. Ging then fell to the ground and whacked a hanging pink feathered toy whilst Blackie's eyes remained half- closed as I slobbered over his head like a sad old woman who has finally lost her ancient marbles.
Driving home I saw no-one.
The steering wheel going one way and the wheels having other ideas. Horrible. But with the danger came an unearthly silence that only snow brings...
Tonight I'll be cooking a beef cobbler.
Simple food, perfect for a Winter's night.
I might have a drop of brandy in my coffee too!
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Witterings As The Snow Falls
Blasted weather!
The only pleasure it brought was seeing two enormous wood pigeons, with their heads down, beating the life out of a piece of bread.
************************************************************************************
The snow came again as I drove home from Henry's, who was, I'm pleased to say, up and about within ten minutes of my arrival. But I'm going to leave it at that because posting again about a sad old gentlemen is beginning to give me the right hump.
************************************************************************************
As I write this thousands upon thousands of beautifully crafted snowflakes are dashing down from heaven. Their destination? My frontage.
I'm not too concerned about the grass or the shrubs it's the potted baby daffs I'm thinking about, a few have already been stupid enough to stick their necks out of the dirt. Daft daffs. But their Mother will take care of them, she's a wily old girl is Mother Nature, she knows how best to take care of her kids. I imagine that deep within the heart of an adolescent daff lies a core of sweet bloody-mindedness. They know they can survive.
************************************************************************************
I feel like eating crackers..
************************************************************************************
American Idol starts next week. And it's a show I particularly like on account of the ghastly way they overdo everything. Big hair and big songs. I do like my yanks.
***********************************************************************************
Talking of televisual treats I can't find much at the moment worth watching, apart that is from the darts on BBC2. But I don't like the presenter, he's some awful Irishman or is he a Scot, well anyway he isn't English. And the way he tries to out talk my beloved Bobby George gets me in a terrible state. Horrid little man. Mr George on the other hand is pure Gold with a capital G. A trifle common but a man with a huge country house and cracking sense of humour. He also covers himself in Gold. Yuk! But he's a character and sports and games need characters. I like him.
Last night I watched Celebrity Mastermind, I thought Tony Parson's eyes looked a bit queer, the ever bright Paul Gambacini won it. Or was that the other night? At any rate he won it.
*************************************************************************************
It's coming down mightily now. And although it looks very charming it's getting to be a pain. The older I get the less willing I am to play rough stuff in the snow. Erecting an ice man and sticking a carrot in his face just doesn't do it for me any more. I prefer a fat warm teddy with a fish under his arm.
************************************************************************************
Just had a text from Walt. Henry is drunk and did I do the pork chops? My answer? Oh no and no I did chicken breasts.
************************************************************************************
Now I stop.
Mouse down, scrub up, phone off, film on.
**************************************************************************************
The only pleasure it brought was seeing two enormous wood pigeons, with their heads down, beating the life out of a piece of bread.
************************************************************************************
The snow came again as I drove home from Henry's, who was, I'm pleased to say, up and about within ten minutes of my arrival. But I'm going to leave it at that because posting again about a sad old gentlemen is beginning to give me the right hump.
************************************************************************************
As I write this thousands upon thousands of beautifully crafted snowflakes are dashing down from heaven. Their destination? My frontage.
I'm not too concerned about the grass or the shrubs it's the potted baby daffs I'm thinking about, a few have already been stupid enough to stick their necks out of the dirt. Daft daffs. But their Mother will take care of them, she's a wily old girl is Mother Nature, she knows how best to take care of her kids. I imagine that deep within the heart of an adolescent daff lies a core of sweet bloody-mindedness. They know they can survive.
************************************************************************************
I feel like eating crackers..
************************************************************************************
American Idol starts next week. And it's a show I particularly like on account of the ghastly way they overdo everything. Big hair and big songs. I do like my yanks.
***********************************************************************************
Talking of televisual treats I can't find much at the moment worth watching, apart that is from the darts on BBC2. But I don't like the presenter, he's some awful Irishman or is he a Scot, well anyway he isn't English. And the way he tries to out talk my beloved Bobby George gets me in a terrible state. Horrid little man. Mr George on the other hand is pure Gold with a capital G. A trifle common but a man with a huge country house and cracking sense of humour. He also covers himself in Gold. Yuk! But he's a character and sports and games need characters. I like him.
Last night I watched Celebrity Mastermind, I thought Tony Parson's eyes looked a bit queer, the ever bright Paul Gambacini won it. Or was that the other night? At any rate he won it.
*************************************************************************************
It's coming down mightily now. And although it looks very charming it's getting to be a pain. The older I get the less willing I am to play rough stuff in the snow. Erecting an ice man and sticking a carrot in his face just doesn't do it for me any more. I prefer a fat warm teddy with a fish under his arm.
************************************************************************************
Just had a text from Walt. Henry is drunk and did I do the pork chops? My answer? Oh no and no I did chicken breasts.
************************************************************************************
Now I stop.
Mouse down, scrub up, phone off, film on.
**************************************************************************************
Awake at 4.
Up at 6.
Dressed and ready to go out right now.
But first of all Weetabix, jammy toast and Radio 4.
Have a feeling I'll need to take it easy today, snow fell during the night so slow goes the car and definitely no to the moving of a small two seater settee from no;38 to no;51 for Henry!
Yes, another hare brained idea from the pickled businessman.
He's quite mad you know. And it seems to be catching...
So seeing as I'm really cheesed off with him and almost everything else think I might buy myself some fish and chips after work and watch the darts on t.v. !
Up at 6.
Dressed and ready to go out right now.
But first of all Weetabix, jammy toast and Radio 4.
Have a feeling I'll need to take it easy today, snow fell during the night so slow goes the car and definitely no to the moving of a small two seater settee from no;38 to no;51 for Henry!
Yes, another hare brained idea from the pickled businessman.
He's quite mad you know. And it seems to be catching...
So seeing as I'm really cheesed off with him and almost everything else think I might buy myself some fish and chips after work and watch the darts on t.v. !
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
A friend has told me that he loved my poem "Everything About You". He said it was "genius". It's moments like these that help me by lifting me out from the terrible pit I sometimes put myself into...
I'm wondering where creative sorts get their creativity from. Like I don't know. Is it borne out of a need to communicate, or is it that they need to flash their feathers. Maybe a little of both. I once said I can't write poetry when I'm happy and I was quite right. I can't. Try try as I might I can't do the jolly-holiday-by-the-sea poem.
Pain, loneliness, anger and sadness rise, like vomit, leaving splashes of 'genius' all over the screen. Let me tell you how "Everything About You" came about.
I'd had a grey day.
And so things like frustration, incompatiblity, lust and fear swung around in my head like almighty bells till they eventually knocked me unconscious.
And that's when the poem was born. In the dark with only a dim table lamp for light. My hair was a mess likewise my head but the discomfort of being suffocated by parasitic invaders was about to bring rewards.
A floodgate had opened, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop the flow, and if truth be told I didn't want to. It felt, what did it feel like, it felt as if all I had to do was lay down and cleave open my mind and legs and let the baby come out. If I hadn't liked what I was giving birth to I couldn't have done anything about it. The seeds were sown a long time ago, probably early last year and then comes the birthday when sprogs of a dubious kind make their way out from the warmth of my worn out mind to the pages of this here blog.
And there they lay looking quite ugly, beautiful, festering, living, unadorned and magnificent like leftovers on the kitchen table, like all the jewels in the world Like hot semen between your legs. Like a hug just before he leaves. Like cold water on a hot day. Like the wailing of the insane, like the crying of a babe. Like words from a nice man. And all you want to do is flash and scream showing the world just how bad and wonderful it is housing all this ghastly glorious stuff so the poem is born.
And how name you this poem?
"Everything About You".
Love, loneliness and fear all inspire the poet but even good lengthy emails provoke responses. And as I read the words of my fellow blogger's email a new baby was gelling itself together taking immaculate form, and I knew as soon as his words hit my eyes that I'd have to blog about it
because that's what we creative sorts have to do.
Every day.
God it's cold and God it's dark and God I'm tired tonight. But tomorrow it's work so I'll put the dictionary away.
Till I feel again...
I'm wondering where creative sorts get their creativity from. Like I don't know. Is it borne out of a need to communicate, or is it that they need to flash their feathers. Maybe a little of both. I once said I can't write poetry when I'm happy and I was quite right. I can't. Try try as I might I can't do the jolly-holiday-by-the-sea poem.
Pain, loneliness, anger and sadness rise, like vomit, leaving splashes of 'genius' all over the screen. Let me tell you how "Everything About You" came about.
I'd had a grey day.
And so things like frustration, incompatiblity, lust and fear swung around in my head like almighty bells till they eventually knocked me unconscious.
And that's when the poem was born. In the dark with only a dim table lamp for light. My hair was a mess likewise my head but the discomfort of being suffocated by parasitic invaders was about to bring rewards.
A floodgate had opened, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop the flow, and if truth be told I didn't want to. It felt, what did it feel like, it felt as if all I had to do was lay down and cleave open my mind and legs and let the baby come out. If I hadn't liked what I was giving birth to I couldn't have done anything about it. The seeds were sown a long time ago, probably early last year and then comes the birthday when sprogs of a dubious kind make their way out from the warmth of my worn out mind to the pages of this here blog.
And there they lay looking quite ugly, beautiful, festering, living, unadorned and magnificent like leftovers on the kitchen table, like all the jewels in the world Like hot semen between your legs. Like a hug just before he leaves. Like cold water on a hot day. Like the wailing of the insane, like the crying of a babe. Like words from a nice man. And all you want to do is flash and scream showing the world just how bad and wonderful it is housing all this ghastly glorious stuff so the poem is born.
And how name you this poem?
"Everything About You".
Love, loneliness and fear all inspire the poet but even good lengthy emails provoke responses. And as I read the words of my fellow blogger's email a new baby was gelling itself together taking immaculate form, and I knew as soon as his words hit my eyes that I'd have to blog about it
because that's what we creative sorts have to do.
Every day.
God it's cold and God it's dark and God I'm tired tonight. But tomorrow it's work so I'll put the dictionary away.
Till I feel again...
The Life of a Pudding
Here it is. A beef and mushroom pudding waiting to be steamed. Made using stewing beef, flat cap mushrooms, onions, Worcestershire sauce and stock, it is the best of all comforts foods. Nothing in my opinion comes anywhere close to this homely simple fare. It is the kind of squelchy hot food I would love children to taste, children whose only taste of beef comes in the shape of a Big Mac! I won't bleat on about women who rear their young on frozen chicken nuggets but I think there is a whole generation of nippers out there who have never tasted a real pudding. And that is a shame.
One of the glories of British cooking. Took 4 hours to steam and served it with potatoes and peas. I first fell in love with beef puddings when I was a little girl. My grandad, Ted, would come home from his day working on the railway and sit in his tiny kitchen being fed a pud. Nearly every day. I, of course, was always on hand to help him finish it off. He smothered it with white pepper and being a child of impeccable manners I lifted morsels up with my good gospel teaspoon and swallowed it. Pepper and all. According to my mum I always 'choked' but it was lovely all the same...
I managed to scoop it out but made a mess as I touched its bottom with my palette knife. The suet pastry was as light as a feather, the beef so tender I didn't need a knife to cut it, just the gentlest of nudges with a fork and it fell apart. Steam rose in wobbly pillars and all I could do was stare at it. Beauty on a plate.Monday, 4 January 2010
Back To Work.
What a gorgeous day.
Lashings of sunlight soothing away some of the crackling bitterness of a wickedly cold day.
So on this well lit but iced up day I wore my fur coat to Henry's.
And I might have worn it inside if I hadn't had so much work to keep me warm. The castle was a mess.
My dear Henry was in bed when I arrived so as usual I got on with what I had to do. Happily for me, Blackie and Ging lent their support by rubbing their faces against my legs.
After doing a little of this and a lot of that Henry bellowed asking for some tea...
His gargantuan frame rolled in the bed, his face reminiscent of a giant plum so I poked him with a spoon saying his tea was here.
He was pleased to see me.
So we rattled on about new year's resolutions whilst I skidded around the bedroom trying to avoid numerous pairs of trousers, pants and socks.
Then the cats made an appearance. They leapt like roos onto the bed sniffing at pillows and jimjam bottoms and flatulent Henry was so pleased.
"They're alright Angie, aren't they?
"Of course they are" I said shooing them away from the trouser press.
By this time my time was running out so I left Henry and ran downstairs.
I did all sorts of nonsense downstairs and by 12 was almost done when Henry made his grand entrance.
"When things pick up later in the year I might want you full time." he said
Did I smile or did I wonder if it was the after effects of a swell night in with a bottle. A little of both. Me attending to his every need five days a week might do wonders for my purse but what would it do for my mind. And knees?
I left him with his pork chops braising...
Simmering on my stove is a Steak and Mushroom pudding. Should be ready by four. If it stays together after I've gouged it from the bowl I might post a pic.
Lashings of sunlight soothing away some of the crackling bitterness of a wickedly cold day.
So on this well lit but iced up day I wore my fur coat to Henry's.
And I might have worn it inside if I hadn't had so much work to keep me warm. The castle was a mess.
My dear Henry was in bed when I arrived so as usual I got on with what I had to do. Happily for me, Blackie and Ging lent their support by rubbing their faces against my legs.
After doing a little of this and a lot of that Henry bellowed asking for some tea...
His gargantuan frame rolled in the bed, his face reminiscent of a giant plum so I poked him with a spoon saying his tea was here.
He was pleased to see me.
So we rattled on about new year's resolutions whilst I skidded around the bedroom trying to avoid numerous pairs of trousers, pants and socks.
Then the cats made an appearance. They leapt like roos onto the bed sniffing at pillows and jimjam bottoms and flatulent Henry was so pleased.
"They're alright Angie, aren't they?
"Of course they are" I said shooing them away from the trouser press.
By this time my time was running out so I left Henry and ran downstairs.
I did all sorts of nonsense downstairs and by 12 was almost done when Henry made his grand entrance.
"When things pick up later in the year I might want you full time." he said
Did I smile or did I wonder if it was the after effects of a swell night in with a bottle. A little of both. Me attending to his every need five days a week might do wonders for my purse but what would it do for my mind. And knees?
I left him with his pork chops braising...
Simmering on my stove is a Steak and Mushroom pudding. Should be ready by four. If it stays together after I've gouged it from the bowl I might post a pic.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Everything About You. Poem.
Talking, when you knew that silence was best,
told me you wanted to speak some truths
And listening, when you knew that I had to talk,
told me everything about you
Caught, as I was, in the wire of a killing marriage
you swiftly set out
to shear me away
from
his long-life talons of contemptible familiarity
Tender you were, and with each quick cut
barbs fell,
felled like solitary dead trees,
falling like tears, slowly, without form
I floated
on a boiling lake of aloneness
an impossible survivor
clinging to your outstretched arms
Awash with awkward silences
we got there
and drifted from pain to relief like people in recovery
each realization
a smile
each selfless act
a kiss
a knowledge got without diplomas
a price we had to pay
told me you wanted to speak some truths
And listening, when you knew that I had to talk,
told me everything about you
Caught, as I was, in the wire of a killing marriage
you swiftly set out
to shear me away
from
his long-life talons of contemptible familiarity
Tender you were, and with each quick cut
barbs fell,
felled like solitary dead trees,
falling like tears, slowly, without form
I floated
on a boiling lake of aloneness
an impossible survivor
clinging to your outstretched arms
Awash with awkward silences
we got there
and drifted from pain to relief like people in recovery
each realization
a smile
each selfless act
a kiss
a knowledge got without diplomas
a price we had to pay
Can of Peaches? What WAS I Thinking?
Open a can of peaches?
I don't think so. Musty have been having a bit of a turn when I wrote that.
Decided on a bowlful of vanilla ice cream with shaved chocolate sprinkled on top.
Canned peaches indeed!
Staying on the pud front..
I got to thinking about tomorrow's munchies...
Sliced some trifle sponges, liberally spread them with blackberry jam, placed them in a pudding bowl then laid some blackberry and apple pie filling on top. Covered this with custard and whipped cream. But no hundreds and thousands because they are so naff. And they eventually melt leaving trails of rainbow liquid all over me cream. If food is good it doesn't need messing about with.
I managed to get two trifles out of the meagre ingredients at hand, one I'll have for tomorrow's tea, the other will go to Henry to follow his pork chop casserole. I don't think there's anything more satisfying than gathering together a few ingredients and coming up with a simply smashing meal. Henry's pork chop affair will be a simple mix of lean chops, big fat onions, sliced unpeeled potatoes and fingered carrots all braised in the slow cooker for hours and hours. Just hope he remembers where it is :(
I'm back at 'work' tomorrow, God knows what I'll find, all I'm hoping is that dear Henry is lucid and not hungover. But his problems aren't mine and I won't and can't make them so. On a clear- headed day he's a joy to be with but when a vodka storm roars in, he's lost, not only to the world but to me as well.
But tonight, what about tonight?
After Googling 'contact lenses and can Varifocal users wear them' I suppose I could polish up my glasses with the hem of my skirt, rustle up a toasted cheese sandwich and be good, but I don't want to do that, what I want is to spray scent all over my bare shoulders and eat Szechuan chicken v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y... And be bad.
Goodnight All.
I don't think so. Musty have been having a bit of a turn when I wrote that.
Decided on a bowlful of vanilla ice cream with shaved chocolate sprinkled on top.
Canned peaches indeed!
Staying on the pud front..
I got to thinking about tomorrow's munchies...
Sliced some trifle sponges, liberally spread them with blackberry jam, placed them in a pudding bowl then laid some blackberry and apple pie filling on top. Covered this with custard and whipped cream. But no hundreds and thousands because they are so naff. And they eventually melt leaving trails of rainbow liquid all over me cream. If food is good it doesn't need messing about with.
I managed to get two trifles out of the meagre ingredients at hand, one I'll have for tomorrow's tea, the other will go to Henry to follow his pork chop casserole. I don't think there's anything more satisfying than gathering together a few ingredients and coming up with a simply smashing meal. Henry's pork chop affair will be a simple mix of lean chops, big fat onions, sliced unpeeled potatoes and fingered carrots all braised in the slow cooker for hours and hours. Just hope he remembers where it is :(
I'm back at 'work' tomorrow, God knows what I'll find, all I'm hoping is that dear Henry is lucid and not hungover. But his problems aren't mine and I won't and can't make them so. On a clear- headed day he's a joy to be with but when a vodka storm roars in, he's lost, not only to the world but to me as well.
But tonight, what about tonight?
After Googling 'contact lenses and can Varifocal users wear them' I suppose I could polish up my glasses with the hem of my skirt, rustle up a toasted cheese sandwich and be good, but I don't want to do that, what I want is to spray scent all over my bare shoulders and eat Szechuan chicken v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y... And be bad.
Goodnight All.
Suet Seems I've Finally Lost The Plot
Normal red blooded females would, at 7 in the blasted morning, be re-living the cracking shenanigans of the previous night, but not me. I was immersed in suet.
As a busy lady I always try to get jobs done in a calm efficient manner because there's nothing worse than letting chores get on top of one. So as tomorrow is my first day back at Henry's I thought I'd get ahead and do tomorrow's dinner today!
So as Monty yelled and Mr H. snorted, I limped to the screamingly bright kitchen to make a Steak and Mushroom pudding. In my nightie. It's queer, you know, how little things like a big cup of tea and a fat posing pigeon give comfort to a big kneed poet/cook. And by jolly jingo did I need comfort. The beef was achingly cold, the onions were more vicious than usual and the rolling pin had ideas of its own...But I had a job to do and do it I did.
When it was assembled I stood and looked and it was, I have to say, quite cute. A large plump pale lump sitting in a blue and white basin wanting to please its creator.
Then I had a cup of tea.
Today's nosh is a chicken, quite a small skinny one but I'll augment it with the addition of loads of veg.
I have no idea about pud, probably open a can of peaches.
I'm a woman so I need to do pink womanly things now. And no suet is involved.
Cheerio!
As a busy lady I always try to get jobs done in a calm efficient manner because there's nothing worse than letting chores get on top of one. So as tomorrow is my first day back at Henry's I thought I'd get ahead and do tomorrow's dinner today!
So as Monty yelled and Mr H. snorted, I limped to the screamingly bright kitchen to make a Steak and Mushroom pudding. In my nightie. It's queer, you know, how little things like a big cup of tea and a fat posing pigeon give comfort to a big kneed poet/cook. And by jolly jingo did I need comfort. The beef was achingly cold, the onions were more vicious than usual and the rolling pin had ideas of its own...But I had a job to do and do it I did.
When it was assembled I stood and looked and it was, I have to say, quite cute. A large plump pale lump sitting in a blue and white basin wanting to please its creator.
Then I had a cup of tea.
Today's nosh is a chicken, quite a small skinny one but I'll augment it with the addition of loads of veg.
I have no idea about pud, probably open a can of peaches.
I'm a woman so I need to do pink womanly things now. And no suet is involved.
Cheerio!
Saturday, 2 January 2010
First Shop of The Year.
After yesterday's tremendous efforts I thought I needed a little relaxation so off I tootled to Hockley.
The sun shone at its best and brightest as I marched along Spa Road, first to Potters for 5 metres of 'teak' Fablon, a wooden washing up brush and acidic orange potato peeler, then came the charity shop by Somerfields...
What joy!
First to be held to my breasts was a large pink and white speckled cat, then as the joint filled up, I found a sweet yellow-flowered cloth evening bag which I'll use for lipsticks. As I gazed at the treasure chest of bric-a-brac I found a tall white vase flecked with pink posies, that, I thought, has mum written all over it. So I bought it along with the other priceless goodies.
On the way home I remembered I needed a lettuce so into the Co-Op I popped. Jill was on the till and as she rang up my bits and pieces we shared a few ladies moments.
It was, I have to say, a very satisfying, quick and simple morning.
On the menu today:
Devilled Pork
Cajun Wedges
Creme Fraiche
and
the ever present corn!
The sun is still out there, his lengthy fingers sweeping the ice off my emerging daffs, Spring can't be far away.
Can it?
Friday, 1 January 2010
A Love Filled Day
Loved clearing up the dresser.
Loved dismantling the tree...I know, I know it's too early but I had to tart up the front room, and leaving the big tree in the corner would have been pointless.
So it had to go.
After humping the tree out into the hall I went in with the duster, dislodging all manner of muck and dust until the room was fairly clean and free of the vestiges of Christmas 2009. But then I had an idea. And ideas don't come any bigger than shifting furniture. So...I slipped a video in and got busy. Never ever have I been able to do anything furnituretively creative without slamming a vid in. Helps me to relax, today's choice was "Goodfellas". Anyway as Bobby De Niro sliced and shot I shoved the settee.
And by 4 p.m. I'd shifted a couple of lamps, replaced the pine coffee table with an old brown low rise cupboard, re-arranged the ceramic cats, cleared the mantelpiece of all but the everlasting Lillies, put an oak dining chair by the fire complete with a cushion or two and lifted the red rug from a vertical position to a horizontal position. Three old lamps were also dislodged, the standard lamp going from by the window to by the dresser and the sausage shaped ochre lamp which once rested by the sweetie bowl now sits by the kitchen kettle. My favourite lamp however, the cream marble type affair, remains on the bookcase.
Of course by the time I'd done all this I was feeling quite aged, so I slouched on the settee, opened the Thorntons chocs and drank a cup of coffee. Heaven.
Why did I do all this?
I thought that as I was alone today, and will probably be so late into the night, I'd make a start on tarting up the place. The front room wasn't the first to get the Glo Touch though, oh no, I'd already climbed on chairs in the kitchen doing things with pans, cup hooks and wires. And I have to say the new curtainless window looks much fresher with just hanging saucepans for decoration.
Did the bins aswell.
So Glo has been a busy old bean today, and not once have I been near the stove. Not cooked a blasted thing. Managed to do everything on:
Two slices of jammy toast, a big bowl of bran flakes and numerous pots of tea. Oh and the chocs. I have to say though, that as a terrible loneliness and a long dark night grips me, I could murder a Chinese.
But yippee it's the weekend soon and I might just pop to Potters for a few metres of Fablon.
It's great being creative.
I love it!
Loved dismantling the tree...I know, I know it's too early but I had to tart up the front room, and leaving the big tree in the corner would have been pointless.
So it had to go.
After humping the tree out into the hall I went in with the duster, dislodging all manner of muck and dust until the room was fairly clean and free of the vestiges of Christmas 2009. But then I had an idea. And ideas don't come any bigger than shifting furniture. So...I slipped a video in and got busy. Never ever have I been able to do anything furnituretively creative without slamming a vid in. Helps me to relax, today's choice was "Goodfellas". Anyway as Bobby De Niro sliced and shot I shoved the settee.
And by 4 p.m. I'd shifted a couple of lamps, replaced the pine coffee table with an old brown low rise cupboard, re-arranged the ceramic cats, cleared the mantelpiece of all but the everlasting Lillies, put an oak dining chair by the fire complete with a cushion or two and lifted the red rug from a vertical position to a horizontal position. Three old lamps were also dislodged, the standard lamp going from by the window to by the dresser and the sausage shaped ochre lamp which once rested by the sweetie bowl now sits by the kitchen kettle. My favourite lamp however, the cream marble type affair, remains on the bookcase.
Of course by the time I'd done all this I was feeling quite aged, so I slouched on the settee, opened the Thorntons chocs and drank a cup of coffee. Heaven.
Why did I do all this?
I thought that as I was alone today, and will probably be so late into the night, I'd make a start on tarting up the place. The front room wasn't the first to get the Glo Touch though, oh no, I'd already climbed on chairs in the kitchen doing things with pans, cup hooks and wires. And I have to say the new curtainless window looks much fresher with just hanging saucepans for decoration.
Did the bins aswell.
So Glo has been a busy old bean today, and not once have I been near the stove. Not cooked a blasted thing. Managed to do everything on:
Two slices of jammy toast, a big bowl of bran flakes and numerous pots of tea. Oh and the chocs. I have to say though, that as a terrible loneliness and a long dark night grips me, I could murder a Chinese.
But yippee it's the weekend soon and I might just pop to Potters for a few metres of Fablon.
It's great being creative.
I love it!
A Great First Post
A few late night funsters kept me awake last night yet as I laid there listening to their drink fuelled racket I felt only love...
Love for the cleaning I am putting off doing.
Love for the cats. Monty, Blackie and Ging.
Love for my pearl necklace and earrings. Might save for a ring. Depends on how much I need to spend on Alex. How far can I go on £15 worth of petrol?
Love for the old cockney sparras. Wouldn't be who I am today without their wisdom and perfectly aimed boots...
And then the morning came and with it more love...
Love for people. People like fellow bloggers whose inspiring words smack an innocent smile on my face quite early in the morning. Thanks Thruster.
Love for text messages. So kindly sent a minute before midnight when my phone was totally turned off. And a happy new year to you too!
Love for Radio 4. A warm thick blanket of brains whilst eating my Bran Flakes. Thanks guys.
Love for Film 4. Batman is on later. Will watch as I iron. Will listen as I chop.
Love for the snow kissed grass. Popped out early this morning to close the half-open garage door and stood for 10 seconds looking at how pretty ice is. Outside.
Love for tea. Nothing saves me more than a full pot.
Love for the afternoon. When an attempt will be made, by me, to re-establish a modicum of tidiness in the front room. God it's a state.
But now I've run out of love so it's back to moaning...
My belly folds are flapping.
Can't decide which bag to use.
The pelmet is falling down.
Spotted acres of mould by the door.
It's freezing in the kitchen, icicles are growing on the saucepans.
My right knee is giving me what-for and no mistake.
The Anti-Wrinkle cream is a liar.
I love you all xxx
Love for the cleaning I am putting off doing.
Love for the cats. Monty, Blackie and Ging.
Love for my pearl necklace and earrings. Might save for a ring. Depends on how much I need to spend on Alex. How far can I go on £15 worth of petrol?
Love for the old cockney sparras. Wouldn't be who I am today without their wisdom and perfectly aimed boots...
And then the morning came and with it more love...
Love for people. People like fellow bloggers whose inspiring words smack an innocent smile on my face quite early in the morning. Thanks Thruster.
Love for text messages. So kindly sent a minute before midnight when my phone was totally turned off. And a happy new year to you too!
Love for Radio 4. A warm thick blanket of brains whilst eating my Bran Flakes. Thanks guys.
Love for Film 4. Batman is on later. Will watch as I iron. Will listen as I chop.
Love for the snow kissed grass. Popped out early this morning to close the half-open garage door and stood for 10 seconds looking at how pretty ice is. Outside.
Love for tea. Nothing saves me more than a full pot.
Love for the afternoon. When an attempt will be made, by me, to re-establish a modicum of tidiness in the front room. God it's a state.
But now I've run out of love so it's back to moaning...
My belly folds are flapping.
Can't decide which bag to use.
The pelmet is falling down.
Spotted acres of mould by the door.
It's freezing in the kitchen, icicles are growing on the saucepans.
My right knee is giving me what-for and no mistake.
The Anti-Wrinkle cream is a liar.
I love you all xxx
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