Playing Dice With Words

Washed, ready for beddybize
cleansed
but deep down, a sooty stop-out

Praying, head bent and sorry
beseeching
but down deep, unrepentant really

Masterminded, words, chess and water
learning
but deep and buried
jovial patting-of-backs partying soul sister

Solitary, night star gazing slug saving
serene
but down deeper, burnt with reckless day star exposure

Holding a gentle old hand
comforting
but under a loose ring of gold, wrath

Singing, miming
make believing drama queen
but inside a screaming bopper who hires invisible dancers

Woman, cake goddess and sink scrubber
pink for girl, blue for boy
but under perfect icing and puddles of disinfectant
a gollywogs lullaby and out-of-bounds vagina

Transparent, bleeding obvious
heart warming buddy
but beneath the halo boiling seething foam

Dignified, stately
knows when and how to speak
but crouching under a tight tongue a guttersnipe

Ladylike, gloves and high panties
knees clamped
but below the lacquered head
a sailor's vocabulary



Gosh that felt good.
Goodnight all.

Debate But With No Broken Ankles

Mr Cameron's eerily spotless complexion out shone the others.
His golden face illuminated like a Fra Angelico painting. He was almost radiant. Make-up is marvellous isn't it? And so is the thought of power.
But it was more than just perfectly applied concealer and a well cut suit, he looked Prime Minister material. At last. Although between you and me I feel that beneath the Bullingham club old sort lies a dirty rough boy who's hiding substances in his draws and an electric guitar in his bike shed.
In comparison milky Cleggy looked like a young sandal wearing teacher giving hope to kids in an inner city school. He means well does Clegg but there's something vegetarian about him, something weedy and worthy. I'm sure he means well but he's young and foolish and obviously isn't listening to the likes of Mrs Duffy and millions of others...His amnesty ideas surely doing damage to the man who would be prince..

Stouty Browny acted, but the gruff, moody, surly man was never far away. His terrible smile at the end making me wonder if he was really fit for high office. To hold power one must grab an audience by the throat and then kiss and lick it. Brown is not a licker. He doesn't know how to please neither does he leave punters wanting, clapping and then wanting more, unlike the very smooth Mr Blair, whose acting ability was second to none.

I think the Labour party have a hell of a task ahead not only trying to convince me and others that they deserve my X but they also need to decide whether or not to keep Mr Brown.. Methinks that whatever the outcome of the General Election men and woman behind the scenes are plotting to gag and bag Mr Brown. Gag and bag remember where you heard it first. And if that does come to pass I feel this blog will bulge with posts about possible replacements.

But back to the programme.
It was a good show, David Dimblebum holding court with the dusty panache of a magistrate. The audience were too well behaved though for my liking I've always wanted to see a bit more cut and thrust from LIVE debates. You know the kind of thing, like when John Wilkes Booth leapt onto the stage breaking his ankle...
I wouldn't want anyone important to get hurt but the idea of one of the electorate losing their rag due to Mr Brown's policies would be televised political theatre at its best.

So to sum up:
Last night...
Mr Cameron seemed to have taken something, possibly 100 mg of Brown's Bigot gaffe. He was a new man last night.
Mr Clegg had probably sipped a glass of kelp tea.
And Mr Brown was sore with self-inflicted thrashings.

I loved it.

Today Eco Man Nick was in Leicester talking to a bunch of students. Cool.
Miserablist Gordon was in Hockley unveiling ludicrous posters. I stood still, teacup in hand wondering which Aide came up with the idea. The posters of desperation.I hated them.
Meanwhile Nice Dave crouched down in front of a load of kids. They don't know you David I said. Go chat up their mums.

In other news....I see Fulham F.C. are doing well. My mum used to clean their offices you know.
and
I spoke to a man engaged in drain pipe analysis.

Zachary

I know I know he's an amphibian.
Taxonomy isn't my strong point.
But he is gorgeous in his froggy way...

Zach and Gordon

I've named him Zachary.
It was love at first bite.
He was in a charity shop sitting on a shelf behind a teapot looking thoroughly out of sorts so I kind of took pity on him.
He's the latest stray to be given sanctuary in the bungalow.
And he's the way I like my males; on his belly head resting in hands gazing up at me.
He is a Lizard. And as I eased him up and towards the till one of his nails or whatever its called got embedded in the fleshy bit of my thumb.
Zach is wooden and green and is, as I speak, laying by the kettle.

Pic on it's way, probably tomorrow.
I have to unload my bag now, rustle up something quick and tasty to eat (tuna pasta) and then I must sit down to watch Brown get himself out of trouble...
I wonder how he's feeling.
Bit like Zach I suppose, stiff.

Abandon All Hope...

Just seen Gordon Brown on t.v.
He was smiling. A smile so fake it was painful to behold. And as he stood outside Gillian Duffy's home I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Tonight when he closes his door and the noise of the press and bloggers mercifully recede, he'll be able to share his pain with his wife.

He is, from what I've read and heard, a passionate man with a quick temper and penchant for flying phones. Tonight I expect he'll need to take stock, a deep breath and then find a way through his political Gehenna.

Hell comes in many forms. And for the politician the unguarded moment, the off the cuff remark can send the unwary candidate into their own infernal circle.
I wonder how he'll sleep.

Tomorrow night he faces the third and final Leaders' debate and for that he'll need to perform his political theatre. As an accomplished actor would know the mask must not slip.
It's all in the eyes and smiles Mr Brown but yours scream of insincerity.

God Who Let That Woman In Here?

Thank God this blog isn't mic'd up! (Poor old Gordo)
What a stream of gutter filth you would hear.

i.e.

"Get that rotten cat out of here"
"Are you still here?"
"Look at that flipping paper peeling"
"That was a disaster WASN'T IT?"
"Where's the bloody delete button?"
"I hate this blog."
"DO SOMETHING!"
"Turn off the phones I am out for the rest of the YEAR."
"I'm in a bit of a mood so scoot or die."
"Why do I BOTHER""
"What's the point of blogging/living/shopping/voting?"
"Tell them to go away I am not interested in double triple or quadruple glazing"
"I am so enamoured with him that I want to throw myself at his feet and suck his toes"
"I HATE HIM"
"I look awful"
"Don't I look wonderful darling?"
"I prefer bad weather it fits with my personality"
"Oh I'd love to live somewhere hot"
"God I hate it when no-one comments"
"Oh look a comment, I love you all"
"Why do I insist on having this blasted mirror in the office?"
"I look gorgeous when I pose this way"
"Who's that at the door now?"
"Is he here yet;)"
"I hate that handbag get rid of it"
"Have you emptied the bin, if not why not?"
"You know darn well why I blog, it's cheap therapy"
"GET OUT"
"WHY AM I DOING THIS?"


I see Gordo's put his foot in it.
Silly Scot.
A man not in tune with the punters, especially Mrs Duffy, poor old thing. I've always known politicians are two faced but to have a swipe was unnecessary. Immigration wasn't her main point yet the petulant P.M. branded the pensioner and life long Labour supporter a bigot. We all get ratty but he should be savvy enough to know how a radio microphone works.
Just because he's in his armoured saloon doesn't mean the wireless waves hit a brick wall.
In other words he's guilty of technical naivete.
And that poses the question. What on earth were his media advisors doing when the broadcasters requested that he be rigged with a radio microphone?

Tomorrow night's Leaders' debate should be worth rushing home to...


Cooking tonight:
Cottage pie
Ice cream and cake

So Exciting!

With a bout of fine weather come bouts of inspiration and optimism. And the recent weather has had my heart a-bubbling in its cage.
No fewer than half a dozen exciting things are currently wrestling for position in my head.
And here they are.

1. The General Election.
A day and night when political groupies like me have a love-in with men in suits and swingometers. Needless to say I'll be zapping my remote from the BBC to Sky and back again. I love the hype, chat and what-ifs on the day, but most of all I adore the morning after when I tentatively switch on to find out if I'm in the red or feeling blue. Or, heaven forbid, swimming through a ghastly unworkable sludge of blue, red and yellow.. Talking of things being unworkable I see Cleggy is banging his smooth fists on his eco- friendly wooden table table saying he wouldn't work with a Brown controlled government. Ooooh!..... I think Mr Clegg is getting above his station, must be all the paparazzi following his every move and the thought that he could be the man who, come the 7th May, holds the nation's wealth and health in his tender unused hands. And I'm the Queen of Sheba.

2. The Eurovision Song Contest.
A pizza filled night when I sit cross legged waving my little flag whilst puzzling over the bonkersness of our fellow Europeans. They think that by singing a queer song in a bad outfit they'll somehow impress the judges. Sometimes they do and they win but I'm hoping that our Josh, our kid, with his homely good looks and great voice will melt the iron hearts of the judging panels. You never know they might even take pity on us if we have a new fella in Downing Street...

3. The Final of American Idol.
Providing Crystal Bowersox is in it. Last week the young woman with the 100 year old soul sang some gospel and, reaching the end, cried. That my dears is what I like. A stunningly pretty girl with golden pipes and heart to match. No-one else in this rather disappointing season of A.I. comes close to Mama Bowersox. Aaron is a kid who, like Crystal, is old before his time, and if Crystal doesn't win I hope he does.
Talking of 'talent shows' I watched Britain's Got Talent and fell in love again, (that's twice in one week) the man is called Christopher. He sang like a man trapped by his parents and his job as an accountant. And as he broke into 'Maria' (lucky girl) my blood ran cold and hot his voice so sweet, so controlled, so filthily rich. I adored him. He of course went through to the next round...

4. Wimbledon.
Green grass, an electronic roof and Rafael Nadal. Heady afternoons where I might sip on a Pimms whilst my grass turns brown due to a hosepipe ban. I love the summer. The summer is my time to shine, mostly on the face where my nose sticks out like a giant strawberry. I love the summer. Hot days filled with green salad, and if I'm flushed, an avocado. Nights where the bed linen is shoved away likewise a snoozing Monty and where each and every morning I vow to put on sun protector nonsense grade nuclear and short socks. But instead I roll down the road getting scorched and wincing as the skin on my little toes gets rubbed away. Protection, protection all sensible gals should use protection.

5. And most importantly of all the start of the 2010 World Cup in South Africa.
I will not allow anything or anyone to interfere with me on any day when England is playing. Please take note now. If you turn up with presents or even promises you will not be allowed access to the bungalow. The beautiful game comes first.

6. My birthday.
I will be 54 not 18. And I can honestly say that being six years away from sixty doesn't bother me one jot.
I don't know what I'll be doing on the day, someone somewhere might have a little surprise planned but even if I'm left alone without even a card or box of Maltesers I will put on a brave face. I'll not fear the extra year, nor the fact that I'm a year nearer the grave, not even the idea that I'm edging towards younger men. And as I study my face looking for extra lines I'll refuse to be blighted by thoughts that it's only men with sticks and hair issues who want me. So on the 28th June (note the date) I will gladly take in all manner of gifts (you know the address) and gaily celebrate my very special day by laughing my stockings off!
(Do not turn up without texting me first alright?)

And on that gloriously subtle note I must say bye bye.

Today looks like it could be a good one.


Ta ta!

HELP WANTED: Please apply via the Bungalow

Don't let anyone tell you Housewives don't have much to do...
Why I'll be positively exhausted by lunchtime.
Have even thought of hiring a little someone to help, the pay wouldn't be much, probably no more that fifty pence an hour but for that, the lucky worker would have free tea and me as their boss. And who wouldn't want me looking over them as they bend? Er.... quite a few actually.

Now about this morning...

Breadmaking. I made this little effort last week it tastes like nothing on earth probably because I prayed over it. When I make bread I'm taken to spiritual flourland where all bad thoughts are knocked out by the constant pounding of the bare dough.
Today I'll be ditching the white in favour of the brown, a change is as good as a rest and all that.

Talking of change, last night I didn't watch a gun infested film I watched something much more painful.
'Control' a film depicting the short life of Ian Curtis singer with Joy Division
So impressed was I that I want to write a poem about him or at least write about how the film made me feel. I didn't know much about the band or the man but the whole thing made an impression on me



Making a pie with left over chicken although having just stuck my head in the fridge it looks as if there might not be enough...So methinks a little cooked veg might be added to the mix, just so the pie is good and plump. Can't bear skinny pies. There's something mean about a half-hearted, half-stacked pies. If you're going to make something whether it's a pie, a promise or a night of love, then give your all.


Will attempt to de-cobweb the outdoor lamp because if someone calls (a most unlikely event) I don't want them thinking someone with evil intent and a complete disregard for dusters has taken over the bungalow. Which reminds me recently I watched Predator 2. Apart from feeling the film was made by two different directors each one reading a different story, it was ok. Although Danny Glover was never going to rock like Arnie. Danny waltzed. Sack the casting director.
SPOILER ALERT.... At the end the rather sexy metal chested dreadlocked Predator showed he had some kind of humanity by not ripping Glover's spine out, instead handing him some old gun from 1721. Ok ok we get it, so you've been around for a few hundred years and you'll be back (God help us) for Predator 3:)


I might, if I have time this morning, rustle up a few Coconut Sponge Fingers. Good old Spongey Fingers, always pleasing to both eye and palette. Which reminds me I have a new lipstick in the shade of Temptress Rose. I now want someone to feed and kiss.

So that's my morning. Well what's left of it! My afternoon will be taken over by snooker.
After all I do need a break...!

Ta ta!
I love you all

Super Idyllic Sunday

Chicken and chocolate, sun and a fresh breeze, film about reviled Victorian murderer William Palmer.
Sunday's don't get any better than this.

Turned Out Nice Again

In a dizzy spin on account of:
1. It's the weekend
2. The magnificent sunlight almost matching my own brilliant light
3. My sweet contentment

I could go on but I'm a woman so in tune with the delicate feelings of others that to bleat on about how good I feel this morning would be cruel.
So I'll leave it at that BUT...

As I fly headlong into today I will endeavour to spread a little happiness by smiling at the little people and agreeing with them about the awful price of potatoes.
I will also smile wickedly reminding myself that life is not all oven temps. and elections.



Ta ta!

Brown By A Distance

And for those of you unfamiliar with horse racing terminology a 'distance' is anything more than thirty lengths.

He came out with his head steady and nostrils flared and was clearly eager to take on the challengers. Yet his opening gambit of self-deprecation had me wondering if this top class stayer had been doped. But as the first few furlongs passed he continued to show his pedigree by hugging the rails not giving the colt or group one runner an inch.

That's enough horse racing analogies.

Sky News, by the way, did a good job although Alastair Campbell was agitated by Ms Burley wanting to talk about 'body language'. A little later Campbell was pleased to be in conversation with the BBC's Emily Maitlis who wanted to chat about policy. The Tories Culture stiff, Mr Jeremy Hunt, made the mistake of trying to duff up Campbell, he lost of course. But it was great theatre. Loved the media room, an asylum of Journos complete with laptops, drink and hysteria. Fascinating.

Adam Boulton presided over the love-in and was so good you didn't notice him. He let the guys get on with it. Just like arsehole Jeremy Kyle who, as distraught couples scream in disagreement over who the father is or how long it is since you last shot up and other familial stuff like that, remains silent as they bleed. Kyle is a low life ponce. Boulton wore a thousand pounds suit...

Next week the BBC host the third and final Leaders' debate and I for one won't miss it.


Ta ta!

GOD BLESS ENGLAND AND ST.GEORGE

They're Off!

Not long to go before the silk suited gladiators stride onto the stage.

As the cakes and bread baked this morning I devoured everything the pundits and commentators were saying on Sky News. I nearly lost the plot where the bread was concerned almost forgetting to add the yeast (again). And as I rolled and sifted and weighed and tasted I heard Bristol people and more colourful people delivering their needs and wants from tonight's debate. All were intrigued by young Nick and despite The Telegraph's attempt to smear his very name over something monetary which happened years ago, most of the ordinary Joes liked him.
Sky had an in-house body language expert who went over and over eye contact, hand gestures and the meaning of a turned down mouth. Not what you might think, it apparently signifies distress. So look out for a miserable mouth. He also said that last week Cameron looked sideways at Brown and that is death in any political debate. Ok?

The baking surged on, so enraptured was I by Dermot Murnaghan's maniacal coverage that I had to sit down by a bag of compost, so thrilling was his delivery. Ex-BBC man you know.
By this time I needed sustenance so I had a thin watery yoghurt.

The real action kicks off in an hour, Ms Kay Burley leading the pre-match proceedings with her in depth analysis of what is to come. Then at 8 the boys hit the field. I'm wondering what they'll wear, where they'll stand and most of all will any of them have their hands deep in their pockets.

Cleggers looked cool last week as his left hand rested in his pocket, but I feel that if Brownsie and Macaroni try to emulate Mr Cool they're gonna come a croppa. Especially Brownsie. Mr Cool he aint.

After a while Ms Burley will hand the whip into the awesomely thick hands of Mr Adam Boulton, who I would gladly make a cup of tea for, but this isn't all about ME, it's about the country and whose gonna be running it on May 7th.

I'm known for my frequent flutters but I have to say that to bet on this bunch is the action of a mug. We've got a top class Stayer in the shape of the Prime Minister but he's up against a Group One runner in the smooth form of Mr Camikaziron and a lean muddy funster in the elegant Colt known as One Armed Cleggy.
All three should stay the distance but only one will get the trip...

I have my tea tray ready, it's laden with a bowl of rice salad and a little tuna sandwich, I'll probably have a bikkie or two too because unlike the jockeys in tonight's race I don't need to watch my weight!

C'mon my son!

A Big Night

Tonight can't come quickly enough for me.

Sky is holding the second Leaders Debate where the three would be saviours of the economy and public services will show their mettle when being roasted by the brilliantly suave Adam Boulton. I'm hoping it's a bloody affair. Because although ITV's Alastair Stewart did a good job I felt we, the public, missed out on what should have been a guts and glory chat. No clapping, booing or heckling makes for sanitised slightly Orwellian viewing. Therefore I hope Sky have the balls to allow the blood and spit to fly.

I love public hangings and I also love showmanship so I bow to the person who managed to get the three men to agree to these live television debates. The first one on ITV1 was spectacularly successful for Clegg, I wonder how he'll fare tonight. I'm expecting much more vitriol from Brown and Camiknickers, after all they can't let the new boy steal the limelight again.

Talking of light...There was a great picture of Gordon Brown in Wednesday's Independent. What makes it worth mentioning is that it was Kennedyesque. Reminded me of the famous photo of Jack, Bobby Kennedy and Robert MacNamara when they were outside deep in conversation, their minds concentrated on the enormity of the Cuban missile crisis.

Black suited Brown looked like he had a crisis too as Andrew Grice interviewed him by the window on the train, the sun highlighting all the white in his hair and all the worry on his face. Shades of black, shades of grey and what do we get? A man possibly on the brink of losing something he loves.
It was a picture worth remembering.

So as I ponder the possibilities of tonight's roughhouse I'll do some stirring of my own...


Ta ta!

Thanks Dig

This post is inspired by my very witty blogging buddy.

If I were a vegetable what vegetable would I be? Without doubt, a Spring Onion. Slender. Has a kick in the bulb. Loves having its head licked.

.....a musical instrument? Mouth Organ. Small and handy. And little boys want them.

......a beverage? Hot chocolate. Comforting, expensive and right at any time.

......a colour? Blue. I am everywhere, in the sky, in everyone's vocabulary.

......a tea time cake? Cream Filled Scone. Homely. Satisfying. And everyone likes pulling them apart. They are also currantless.

......a weapon? Knuckle duster. Pocket-sized, effective.

......a fast food meal? Sweet and Sour Chicken. Gaudy, delicious and without doubt the poor man's Caviar.

.......an illness? Backache. A real pain. Sometimes. Greatly cursed but suffered with dignity.

........a traffic signal? Green. God's colour. Great stress reliever.

.........a cartoon character? Jerry. Unbelievably fortuitous. Agile. And always comes out alive however many times he's flattened with a frying pan.

.........a weather? Sunny sky then clouds muscling in. Then sun again.

.........an ornament on someone's window? A slightly built ceramic waif bending down to pat her shaggy golden dog who in turn stares up at his mistress with brilliantly blue eyes. Price 75p.

........a garden pest? Ant. Industrious. Quick on their pins. Misunderstood.

........a type of pasta? Macaroni. Much derided. Old fashioned. Lovable lumps.

Before I go up a ladder I must have a word.
And that word is: Egg.
One was hurled at Mr Cameron this morning, didn't harm him in any way just grazed his shoulder. If I were a politician I would endeavour to keep all missiles flung in my direction because people who hurl, whether it be eggs or abuse, are exhibiting passion. They are not one of the 'can't be bothered bunch'. Yes, Mr Eggermon should take his eggy anointment as a sign that he's somebody worthy of hatred.

At the shops this morning I not only bought chocolate but dried apricots and a bag of carrots. And as I shook and looked at the aforementioned bag of carrots I noticed a knobbly one. If, and it's a very big if, if the carrot is silly or faintly phallic I'll photograph it and get it on here.
I love naughty vegetables. There's so much fun to be had when swinging, dangling and staring at mis-shapen fruit and vegetables especially when they look like human organs....I've purchased a lot of bums, a few noses, but the best ones, the fun ones, are penises.
Talking of which...

Workmen were digging the roads up around Cuckoo corner which made a few sensible drivers slow down to tortoise pace as soon as they clapped eyes on the Cones of Frustration. Didn't alter my driving though, because I always drive beautifully. Cones or not.

Ta ta...

Soul Of A Certain Age

Last night I listened to some old soul and willingly returned to the days when dancing was my life. And boys were there to run away from.

The album I listened to was 'Motown Chartbusters Vol 1.It was released in 1971 when I was 14. At 14 I was an empty thin pale shell, colour, fat and fullness were to arrive much later.
As Marvin and Stevie spoke to me with their beautiful poetry, my eyes closed and my old chair rocked with a sudden sadness. Music can do that. It not only makes me crash around like a cat with its tail on fire it also takes me somewhere else. That somewhere else being the silver plated well trod halls of my mind where xtreme fantasies and a whole load of "what ifs" are unshackled with sweet and sour relish.

And then if that wasn't enough non-stop remembrances of my life as the disco queen in the Pontefract Castle (just off the Edgware Road) leap on board leaving me tap-tapping my shoeless feet to The Temptations, then, without warning, without a thought, without a bra, I'm up, I'm down, spinning around, twisting small red-toed feet into old beige carpet, stopping in front of the mirror to grab a breath, to pose, then, in a moment of lust, offering up a few pelvic thrusts in the direction of my favourite invisible man.
That's the godlike power of soul music.
After I listened I slept, no dreams to stir my slumber.



Today...

I'm driving into town to get chocolate.

Snooker loopy nuts are we, me and him and you and me, I'll show you what I can do with a load of balls and a snooker cue. Pot the red and screw back for the yellow, green, brown, blue, pink and black, snooker loopy nuts are we, we're all snooker loopy;) (Many thanks to Chas and Dave)

Pebbles are so on the back burner.



Ta ta!

Two bags were ripped open and a vast amount of gravel laid down. There's a lot more to do of course but not today. As I was bending and scattering tons of rocks, a bird sang at the top of someone's tree and feeling the need for the heavenly things in life, I stopped momentarily so as to concentrate on its perfect tone.
As the repetitive song split through the greenery I was taken away from the membrane and stones, taken way up into the tree where this little yellow bird sat, and for a few seconds the little bird and me were the only ones in the garden.Then, as the bird did encore after encore, I flew down and the empty dusty gravel bags flapped like applauding hands in the cool breeze.
I thought two hours of unladylike work were enough so after looking at the stony patch from several directions I came in to bake a box of faggots.

^_^

Glo Rocks!

I can't write much today on account of me needing to get my rocks down.

So as soon as I finish this I'll drop into my jeans and get dirty. And it doesn't matter how grubby I get because there's no-one here to see me. I only hope no-one rings my bell because I hate greeting people with a shiny face and reckless t-shirt.
Yesterday I bought another two bags of pebbles and as much as I'd love to cuddle up on the sofa with Monty watching a film this afternoon, the lure of hours of hard garden graft titillates me. I must remember though to wear trainers and not heels!
Whilst on the subject of heels...What is about heels that makes me go from a hard working mighty midget to a man crusher?
Big sigh....


Other news from the bungalow.....

I re-arranged the front room furniture last night. Mr Horsehound was busying himself with more intellectual stuff while I found things under the sofa. Chocolate paper. Ear Ring. Screwed up love note.
I've sewn a load of spring onions and another few pots of courgettes. Rotation or something.
A black and white cat ran around my Japanese Maple. He slicked and slid like a smooth tongued killer. Quite lovely.
The ceramic cats have been re-housed. Their position on the mantel shelf was beginning to annoy me. They're now stiffly sitting on two windowsills. The elegant flowered one is facing out, should give cold callers a fright.
I'm having a couple of faggots today.

I've spent long enough here in front of the screen and in front of the window, now it's time for action.
Action, action, it's the only way to get anything done...

Ta ta...

Writing or Writhing?

Food or poetry?
Baking or short story?
Spoon or keyboard?

Although I am a very talented writer I've recently left the office in favour of the kitchen and in so doing created some mouthwatering offerings.
Made my first Tiramisu yesterday, and am still recovering from its unctiousness. Never ever have I had anything in my mouth so silky, it was, quite simply, the best cool dessert I've ever made.
It started with me cutting out a recipe from one of mum's mags, it contained lots of things I'm partial to, things like, cream cheese, egg yolks, egg whites, sugar, coffee, sponge and alcohol. The recipe needed rum but I only had an inch of brandy so that was thrown in instead.

As I, God I'm excited just writing about it, as I made a golden eggy custard, the Mascarpone cheese sat idly by waiting to be beaten in along with the sugar. When that was beaten in I whipped up the whites and carefully cut and folded them in with a large spoon. Then the best bit...I sliced into cubes some trifle sponges and dipped them into warm brandy laden very strong coffee, then placed them into my best glass serving dish. (It has legs and looks very grand) . The cheesy mix was then poured slowly over the drunken sponge, a heavy dusting of cocoa was sprinkled on and the cutesy wobbling beauty was left alone for two tortuous hours...

As it rested in the fridge I made a very late Sunday lunch. So late in fact that it was really an early dinner!
Not feeling up to doing a bird I fried some steak and served it with chips, deep fried battered onion rings and peas. A couple of slices of my homemade bread were on the side. Sunday lunch/dinner has never been so rough.

Then a good while later, we watched Charles Bronson shooting the hell out of a few dozen drug dealers in Death Wish 5 or was it 4. Makes no difference, they're all the same. Charlie boy running amok with a machine gun completely devoid of any facial expressions. But it was great fun. Shame Mr Bronson died in 2003 I would have liked to have seen him blow a few more MoFo's away.
Watching a great hunk in great junk is made extra special when eating a bowlful of Angel's Belly...And that is what immediately sprang to mind when the Tiramisu wallowed in my mouth. just after 7.
Angel's Belly. Because it looked plump, angelic and made a silly dent when poked with a little finger.

I love coochy woochy Tiramisu.

It will be made again and again, not just for the Horsehounds but hopefully for non-paying guests who appreciate heavenly food and dire films!

Now I really should make a serious start on a story but I'm baking bread and tarts. They too, like any good piece of fiction, will leave the devourer wanting more....

The pic is of a giant strawberry I found in my punnet.

Glo Goes Undercover...Looking For Jessamy's Bits!

Gotcha!

I Love Pasta, Old People And Thrilling Political Debate...

Oui, oui.

I could have passed for a French lady yesterday, so chic and petite was I. I think it was the black trench coat and black patent shoes that did it.
And as the late train made its hurried way into London I bit my lip in anticipation of what was to come. I do so love popping in to see mum and dad, their upbeat optimism always managing to dispel any negative thoughts I have about myself. And I have many I'll have you know. But seven hours in their company and I'm rejuvenated. Suddenly anything is possible and the doubts which crush and disable me are shot to smithereens not just by their love but by their belief in me. I think people who have that power, that power to rekindle, re-ignite a fading flame should be honoured and loved. So in my own little way I show my affection and gratitude by taking up cakes and pies and trusting without question their infallible advice.

After the necessary shop where I bought fresh pasta and lip gloss, mum and I rattled on about men. How lovely they are for a day or so but how painful their animalistic tendencies can be. They also get so in the way in the house. We agreed, over tea and strawberry cake, that for a woman to understand a man she must think as a man. Dad laughed.

And then after the sex lesson we all went mental whilst yakking about the upcoming debate. I told them that I had to be home in time for it and dad said how pleased he was that his daughter had taken his advice 40 years ago and had taken an interest in the murky world of politics. He also told me how to vote. On that joyously ludicrous note I picked up my handbag and left, getting home with thirty minutes to spare. I sat down with my bowl of pasta and watched Messrs. Cameron, Brown and Clegg fight it out like a gang of intellectual thugs. I knew from the off that Clegg was a winner, his opening ninety second speechlet had me hooked, the other two paled into the background. Brown came across as stuffy, his hand gesticulations reminiscent of PMQ's. Mr Cameron tried to look Ministerial but there was something missing, he lacked gravitas and just sounded like any other Tory boy. No, Mr Clegg won the debate, although I doubt whether he'll hold on to his new found fame as the election gets nearer. I was most impressed by the way he looked into the camera when answering a question so unlike Brown who avoided the camera's eye at all costs. OK maybe he did shoot a glance now and again but over all he side stepped the one eyed monster like a kid facing a headmaster. Too tetchy and evasive. Cameron looked smooth and clean but wore too much make-up.

As the pasta disappeared I just salivated and the debate could have gone on for another hour and I wouldn't have cared. I loved it.
Winner by a mile: Nick Clegg.
Man Trying to be most Prime Ministerial: Cammy Knickers.
Man on the precipice: Gordo.


So glad I sometimes look chic, so pleased I bought the pasta and so incredibly indebted to mum and dad for making me watch Panorama 40 years ago.

Another Day Graced By Sunshine.

Which is just as well because I needed to walk almost down to the seafront on the lookout for clear round nose pads.
I got them eventually, being served by a bubbly girl with purple streaks in her hair.
On the haul back I popped into the 99p shop to buy another laughing Buddha, the previous one being decapitated by some unknown force, foxes or badgers probably. Becoming headless reminds me that I too can be a clot in the garden having knocked Jessamy the gnome off the step. Not having the heart to put him in the recycle bin I kept his head and hung it from a conifer branch. Picture coming, possibly at the weekend...

Talking of pictures and stupidity I photographed a giant strawberry today. The said berry was from a Sainsbury's punnet of 'basic' strawberries. I needed the fruit on account of me making a luscious strawberry cake for mum and dad. I'll transport it to London very carefully.
Anyway this giant strawberry is as big as a bulb of garlic and I thought it would make a good photo. So click and it was so.

I don't know if I'm imagining it but all I keep seeing is Nick Clegg. And each time his forehead appears to be getting higher and higher. Or do I need a sight test/drugs test/insanity test?
Talking of heads Mrs Brown was on the telly earlier standing very close to Mr Brown and she too had facial issues which bothered me. Over her left eyebrow a deep furrow was clearly visible. Was she worried that someone might say something awkward to her husband or was she just terribly uncomfortable in front of the cameras? Whatever it was she did look a bit queer. Just nervous tension I expect after all when hubby is fighting for his political life wifey is bound to look a bit taut in the eye area. I like her though.

Mrs Cameron, aka Sam, just rubs me up the wrong way. There's some thing about the gir'ls hairline that brings to mind witchcraft and the dark arts.
On the Liberal front, Mrs Clegg is nowhere to be seen. She works apparently and has no time to travel on battle buses with her better half, the man who will not hold the keys to number 10 but might enter via the back entrance.
Liberals are the most annoying of all politicians but I give them 10/10 for perseverance. While I'm on the subject, if Liberal M.P. Sarah Tether looses her seat she could always sign up with a talent agency as a Queen Victoria lookey-likey. She was on Question Time recently and my God as she sat perched on her little chair I almost fell to my knees, so majestic was her manner and hair.
She may be tiny and slightly overweight rather like the original Queen but Cleggy wants to watch out because our Sarah is after his job, mark my words...

Oh God what am I doing writing so much I have duties to perform.
Being served tonight at God knows what time are Italian style chops, mashed pots and something green.
For pud: Ice cream and mini chocolate castles.


Ta ta

Big Brown interview on tv tonight.
Long creamy Swiss Rolls. Possibly sausage rolls too. Day of rolls.
Cleggy Manifesto fest. Oh God all day. News news news.
Tiny Nose pads. Price unimportant. Spex now intolerably painful.
That is my day.
Thank you.
Goodbye.

For Those Of A Delicate Disposition Please Look Away Now...

Monty has just been hand fed porridge from a big silver spoon. The splats are everywhere. On the keyboard, in my hair and on the mouse. But as he licked the spoon dry I grinned like a bonkers woman because there's no sweeter sight than an emotionless cat scraping up porridge.

*****************************************************************************

Talking of emotionless, I am.
For several reasons.

1. My glasses are giving me the pip

2. I should have done more today.
Jobs like de-scaling the windows, re-instating two hubcaps and tenderising my awful nails in time for a fun weekend. But I didn't do any of it, instead I mooched about eating tuna and porridge and wondering who'll win the General Election, American Idol and the Eurovision Song Contest (29th May). In A.I. I love Crystal Bowersox whose performances make me shiver, what a talented girl she is. Amazing vocals mixed with the roughness of someone who doesn't give a hoot about false eyelashes or what we think of her. Her missing tooth is a delightful reminder that she's real and wonderful. Absolutely love the girl.
Aaron is a 16 year old boy whose housing an old soul in his fresh clean body. He looks slightly out of this world, small and thin, large forehead and a rich voice so tender and used that it should belong to a much older man. I do not want him to leave just yet because he brings out the best in me. Happiness for other people's success.

3. I carefully avoided writing by clicking on my remote to watch some dreadful film called The Messengers. Deleted it from my Humax after twenty minutes. Not storing junk like that on my hard drive. Much prefer to clog it up with good stuff like Rick Gervais's Extras. Which I have to say is writing at its best. The episode with Les Dennis being so painful it was genius. Well done Ricky and well done Les. It's so often the case that comics make very good straight actors, Les's portrayal of er....Les was done with a bitter reality which stemmed from the major cock-ups and heartache he himself went through.
Why are funny people so often tragic cases?

4. I changed the bed linen this morning and found a toffee wrapper. Don't look at me!

And all because of my stupid glasses

Hacker

I've just watched Lord Pearson, leader of UKIP laying into Michael White of the Guardian. So what you may say.
What I found charming and slightly creepy was the Lords use of the word 'Mr' when addressing lefty Whitey. Sitting alongside the Lord was former leader of UKIP, Mr Nigel Farage, a man more fitted for selling suits. There was another chap at the table but just as he started to speak about the banning of Burkhas in public buildings the BBC's chief political correspondent Laura Keunnesburg (?) broke in.
I was miffed by that. I'm not in love with UKIP but I'm very interested in their manifesto and for the BBC to cut to Laura when a sensitive subject is about to be aired is, to me, very annoying.
So I left the arena.

And am sitting here with partially broken glasses screwing up my nose in order to keep my very expensive specs on!
And women with lines on their faces can't afford to make any more lines by the stupid screwing up of noses. All this screwing has been brought about by the nose pads disintegrating as I wiped the lenses just after 9 this morning.
I immediately ransacked the bungalow looking for replacements, of course, finding none.. So as the metal thingys leave elephantine indentations on the sides of my nose I'm planning to barge through the doors of Specsavers tomorrow demanding a re-fit.


What else?
Oh my hair looks chirpy. It's funny how very short hair makes one feel younger. Which leads me on to what else makes one feel younger...

Being a cheeky blogger.

Being petite.

Not looking at the Saga website. Over 50 I may be, but I don't want to be associated with stairlifts, standing on a ship looking out to sea with a bloke who promises a better tomorrow, Vagisil, sex advice, portable toilets, caravan holidays, osteoporosis, the making of wills, dentures, over 50's dating, creams for female dryness and sodding grandchildren.

Not going on cruises.

Being erect.

Wearing ankle socks.

Not looking to the future.

Thinking I can use a chain saw wearing slippers.

Staring at a slight cut on my thumb for hours.

Sulking.

Being happy with a new pen.

Not being afraid to go grey.

Non-communication with people who have perfect lawns.

Occasional spots.

Falling in love, say, every three months.

Being inquisitive.

Stopping in wonder at the sound of birdsong and gazing high up at the tree trying to figure out what make of bird can sing so beautifully. Chaffinch it was....

Loving Hacker.

Having a gap in my front teeth.

My Poor Lisa

Lisa arrived in a blue pick-up truck. Her car having failed its MOT. But it wasn't the fact that she had to drive a truck that was upsetting her, it was her mother being sectioned.
Lisa's hands held mine as she unravelled her story.

Her Mother has been seeing a man who wormed his way into the old lady's life by helping her change her water purifier. Since that day she has gone to his home to clean it up and generally be a good egg. He introduced her to his solicitor friend and told her that he was single, she, that's Lisa, has since found out that he is married.
Lisa was beside herself as she trimmed my hair, her non-stop talking the sign of a woman unsure about what to do.

She said that when she visited her Mother in the psychiatric hospital the 69 year old went white when mentioning the deeds to her house. Lisa couldn't get her to elaborate so she has an appointment with her Mothers's bank manager to 'talk' about the deeds of the house.
I felt so sorry for both Lisa and her mum, having been through the hell of watching a loved one lose who they are. In other words, watch as someone you'd give your life for, has a nervous breakdown.

The silence which comes with mental illness only causes more stress for the people looking on. Because unless the sick person talks nothing can be done. Mental illness comes in many forms but whatever form it takes, the person in the hospital bed, or the person staring out of the window has to know that there are people in their midst who know and understand what is happening to them.

For a person to go into themselves, thereby severing all contact with their families, friends and health professionals, is to load hell upon hell. But the hardest thing to do for someone dealing with depression, anxiety or paranoia is to talk. And that is the one thing they must do. However long and arduous the journey, the person on the bench in winter or the person undressed and unwashed must find a someone to whom they can empty their heads.

After she'd finished my hair, I told Lisa she could come and talk to me if she needed to, Sometimes an outsider is better than family.
She said she would, but I very much doubt she will. Dealing with this kind of illness takes a lot out of people both physically and emotionally so I don't expect my hairdresser will call a customer. Albeit her favourite one.
But I've been through it all and so I had to offer.


So today has been wildly interesting.
Dancing to keep fit.
Baking to put on the pounds.
Trying to concentrate on a story for publication. Yeah yeah yeah...
Having my hair cut and in so doing feeling lighter and brighter and even more spirited.
Looking out at the garden itching to get my gravel down.

Cooking tonight:
Chicken pie, peas, creamy mash, gravy, mustard.
For pud: Pineapple with butterscotch sauce.


Ta ta

:)

An excellent morning and mornings can be excellent especially when excited and cram full of hope.

In between doing stuff I watched Gordon Brown delivering the Labour party's manifesto. Ok I thought as Mr Brown in fetching pink tie rattled on about fairness. Call me cynical but I've heard it all before and the sight of the Cabinet doing their parade made me squirm. But it wasn't as ghastly as Neil Kinnock's rallying speech in '92. God how embarrassing was that?

Still he paved the way for Blair as he paved the way for Brown, albeit it shoddy and without pizzazz. This is the first time Gordon has had to face the electorate, and we all know how he hates elections. Preferring not to stand against Blair for the leadership and bottling the call for a General Election a couple of years ago. So God knows how the man feels right now. But there is no way out for the tenacious stroppy Scot. And even though he's made major errors I have a sneaking regard for him solely based on the fact that I believe he cares deeply for the dispossesed. Unlike the Tories who make out they care. Cameron is quite a spectacle when getting down with the kids, there was only one person who could kick a football about convincingly and that was El Blair.
Now there was a man fit for the stage.

But I digress dreadfully...I guzzled up BBC news whilst making a pie and cake then did email type stuff. After having a rather weak cup of tea I exercised to Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now'. How I shook my booty....:)

I dare say I'll blog later but until then I'll say ta ta because I have my make-up to do.

The Best Laid Plans Of Blogging Babes...

Go awol when:

...the sun shines

...my hairdresser is rushing round to run her ringed fingers through my gamine hair. Keep it short, keep it crisp, emphasise the feminine curves.

...just after breakfast 2 youngish outdoor lads with with big equipment ring my bell to badger me about pruning. Bless. Cougars use their teeth darlings.

...the baking of a simple poppy seed loaf is ditched in favour of a luxurious thick walnutted chocolate cake. Homely sucks sometimes.

...I blow out Radio 4 to re-live the 70's by swinging around the office to Michael and the boys "Let Me Show You". God that's good.

I realize that creating is all that matters.

I Love You

Life goes quiet
when meagre heartbeats stop
their familiar thud,
the reminder that life is o.k.
dull,
so-so,
is suddenly lost

Life goes still
when covered limbs are severed
their familiar reliable strength,
a reminder that life is movement,
is suddenly lame


BUT


Life goes hot and nuclear
when passions impossibly magnify
their zoom and boom,
give thrust to our engines,
and suddenly we're fired

Life becomes noisy
when hearts beat senseless
their unfamiliar peal,
a blitz on our senses,
and suddenly we fathom love




Angela Norris

Childlike Love

I've just walked around the garden and it felt wonderful. My eyes narrrowing in the sunlight, a subtle breeze licking up and down my legs, and even the pitiful scattering of cloud not darkening my love.

Today is about the simplicity.

Gorgeous homely food fit for a king, music and dance, poetry and tenderness. And all done wearing just enough for modesty.

I love the feel of nothingness.

To brush a bare calf against wood is, I imagine, like having a leopard say hi...

What Happens When Your Husband Leaves At Five

I dreamt of falling teeth.

And on waking alone, I ran my tongue over my incisors just to make sure they were there.
It was comforting to feel their killer smoothness.

And then it dawned on me that this is the time for poets so I banished all thoughts of Saturday pork and gave myself over to beauty.
And, after looking for white amidst the black, I was rocked back to sleep by the tranquil chanting of a feast of birds.

Gosh these keys are chilly

I really liked meeting people today.
Sharing our maniacal joy over the sudden change in the weather.
Saying ooh and aah over secondhand objects.
But really I think I should have gone to London.

My first thoughts this morning were of mum and her dodgy eye. She underwent another procedure today and I should have been there. The fact that she needed to be at the hospital by 7:30 is irrelevant. I could have got the first train out of Southend and would have arrived in London by 7. Bugger.
When I mentioned this idea yesterday mum raised her voice saying one word. No. So being the dutiful brow-beaten daughter I obeyed. And instead of hanging about in a hospital waiting area I fritted away time and money in happy Hockley.

We chatted away just now like a couple of parrots. And her voice did what it always does, re-assure.
Aint nothing I can't tolerate or do.
She told me of the things they did to her eye and how she wasn't worried at all, not even when the needle approached. "Didn't care" she said "The nurses were rushed off their feet but very kind"
I heard the racing on t.v in the background, "We only had a small tickle" she lied, dad meanwhile hollering a few fucks at a jockey.
And this is my parents!
How they are how, how they've always been and how they'll always be. Me? For Christ's sake I'm of their flesh, can't be anything but an optimist, survivor, joker...
Right that's the love fest out of the way.

Tonight I'll be cooking Lasagne. And to make it more interesting I'll serve it naked.

Ta ta

Gloria Excels

Thursday is my Hockley day and I love it.

I parked up behind the library and then made my way along Spa road walking very slowly past the pub on the corner the one with Sky and WI FI. Wouldn't pop in just to watch the footie or to go online. Pubs are for grubby meetings and curly sandwiches.

Jay walked across the sunlit road and wandered dreamily along the narrow pavements without a serious thought in my head. Then.....Chicken...I needed to buy a chicken. But that could wait for an hour or so because I had other things to buy.

First stop the Lions charity shop, a huddled little place next to the fish shop where I once tried unsuccessfully to get a job. On throwing the door open I was met by the till lady who must have been a hundred years old. She was almost crumbling in her lilac cardigan and blue floral dress. I smiled a good morning smile, she creaked a nod.

After walking past the glassware, the 'reduced' clothing rail and the 25p videos, I came to my favourite bit, the miscellaneous kitchen ware section. Lovely, now I can have a good rummage...Amongst the piles of odd plates, knives and Mickey Mouse mugs was a stunningly beautiful vegetable peeler. I don't usually become excited by 'modern' takes on old fashioned equipment but this was gorgeous. Very slick, very smooth and quite long. For a vegetable peeler. I moved on to the frocks and as I flicked the frocks, I stroked it. Can one become aroused by 8 inches of steel? If you're 53 you can.

With the tool in my hand I browsed the bookshelves hoping no-one would hear my panting. No-one did because the other customers were chatting loudly to the till lady about caravanning in Wales. With my head cocked to one side my eyes swept over the titles in the 'cookery' section (12) . Where I found a 1970 Hamlyn 'How To Make Good Curries' book. Six books along I saw 'Sweet Dreams' 1983 a pudding and dessert book by Josceline Dimbleby. Yes thank you they will be a good read this afternoon.
But I'm not all about cooking I have a brain too. So I hit the 10p dump bin and brought to the top 'A Book of English Essays' edited by W.E. Williams first published by Pelican 1942, this edition, Pelican 1963, price on the top right hand corner 5/-
Glancing through my heart beat faster. "I have an almost feminine partiality for old china" the first sentence from Charles Lamb's essay entitled 'Old China'. I was hooked....

So with my peeler and books clenched in my sweaty hands I made my way to the till where I found a clowns head fridge magnet in a wicker basket of fridge magnets. I smiled again at Miss Hockley 1925 and paid her £1:25. The peeler was 15p by the way.

Out into the sun where I was aghast at the crowds of people all milling around by Somerfields (where I was robbed of £4 for a medium chicken) and the charity shop right next to it. My God what is it about the sun which makes people want to spend? Just makes us feel good I suppose and when we feel good we tend to be generous not only to others but to ourselves also.
Which reminds me, a greengrocer man of indeterminate age, who was twiddling with oranges outside his shop, watched me as I walked towards him, I wondered why but enjoyed it all the same.

Then into the next charity shop where I immediately ransacked the box of bags, finding the bag of love under a horrid black shopping bag. I lifted the bag of love to the light inspecting it for minor flaws, I cannot ever use a bag with even the slightest scratch or blemish. This brown mock croc corker was 99.9 percent perfect. Inside was crumb and hair free, handle in tip top condition, and when opened up, loads of roomy loveliness for all my junk. Yes thank you Madam I'll have it.

Then I wandered about not paying the least attention to clothes but I did have a little look on the shoe shelf :) Oh yes. A pair or ridiculously impractical jewel encrusted pumps said 'try me' So I did. Walking from the mirror to the door and back again. I felt very light and ballerina like. And so I pirouetted to another old dear manning the till.

As she did her best to punch in my items the till went bonkers and she went blank, calling out for 'Evie' who was out the back. Evie came, pressed a few buttons and all was well. To confuse the cashier even more I asked to see the item which was dangling on a shelf behind her, the shelf housing over priced jugs and an an Elvis L.P.
She handed me the sweet thing and did her best on the till but again managed to cock it up. "Need one of those tills in Last of the Summer Wine" she said.
Oh God. I thought. I don't do programmes like that just give me the swinging cute and cuddly black and white cat and let me shove off.
But let's not get ratty, I love my new bag, cat, shoes, books, fridge magnet and steamy vegetable peeler. Which reminds me...
I walked back past the greengrocers v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y!

And laying my bag of goodies in Alex's rear I thought how lucky I was...£5:25...Chicken not included!


Ta ta.

Here's the more I spoke about...

The conservatory looks a little better, could still do with a major clean but we'll leave that for another sunny day. I've shuffled a couple of chairs around, re-arranged a few ceramic birdies, planted some courgettes (2) and played with the table which nearly flattened me.
It is a rather ghastly smoked glass affair which I've had outside for a year or so. I picked it up on 'Freecycle' a place where you get er... free stuff. I got a bee in my bonnet last summer about eating outside so being a canny Londoner I amused myself by checking out good old Freecycle. And lo and behold an elderly lady living nearby wanted to get shot of her garden furniture...She didn't have long to wait...I gladly took it off her hands on account of it being in tremendously good condition and was selling in all the garden centres for over £200. Anyway we got it home, I tarted it up with this and that but rarely sat outside eating a chargrilled chicken leg. I wanted wood really.
Anyway winter came and I kept looking at it knowing that sooner or later I'd shift it. Somewhere. And that somewhere is my little falling-to-bits conservatory.

The table now holds a vase and artificial lilies, wooden knick knacks, a tea tray and two small compost loaded pots complete with courgette seeds.
Monty has sniffed around the legs of the table and but as yet hasn't climbed aboard. I think he's still stressed over the fact that idiot face here has moved his chair 18 inches.
Sorry darling.

Been a cracker of a day and cooking tonight is a sausage risotto. It's not a true risotto in the purest risotto sense but it's fabulous all the same.

Ta ta

Seeds, weeds and bouncy bums

I love the sun but it's having a bad effect on me.
Because of this unseasonally decent weather I've been in the garden pacing around like a salesman, poking my nose in here and there...
I then had an idea... so have 'lifted' something very heavy from outside to inside resulting in me falling backwards onto my bum.
Monty laughed his whiskers off.

More later I expect...

Dripping Glo

Last night I couldn't watch the third episode of the final of the final of the final of MasterChef on account of my legs, so I have, just now, watched a recording of it.

And I now know that I am officially and without doubt mental.

Mental because I cried.
Yes cried because that wicked aunty BBC tightened my emotional chords so much so that when the winner was announced I broke into female tears.

Mr Dhruv Baker from London won the coveted title of MasterChef 2010 and well deserved it was. His culinary expertise was learnt from his mother but his imagination wasn't learnt from anywhere or anyone, he was born with it. Knowing how to plate up food so that it waters mouths even before being tasted is the skill of the artist. And a good cook IS an artist of course, whether he's cooking hash browns for his children or braising lobster for the Maharajah, glowing Dhruv proved he could do it all.

His frustrations didn't get get the better of him even when cooking in 100 F. Jodphur, so great was his concentration that I doubt he noticed the perspiration droplet hanging from the tip of his nose. How sweet I thought as I waited for it to drop in to the raita. It didn't. But it wouldn't have bothered me one jot if I'd had some of his bodily fluids glazing my Samosas.

So Dhruv won and I sniffed.
His artistic interpretation of how food should look, taste and feel left me weeping.

Loved him!

Oh come on mighty sun man cover me as I:

1. Walk a long way to the post office to post a parcel to my bff.
Alex the car is a bit low on pedril you see and the thought of conking out by the Elim church makes me swear.
What is it about me and petrol?
Unless I have a full tank I won't go out. Keeping one eye on the little gauge makes me drive faster... got to get to Sainsbury's/ pub/station/people's houses before the gas thing hits the buffers.

2. Walk back avoiding all shops which might take away my money.
The shops being a paint shop, a card shop and a florist. Might look in the window of the florists.

4. Avoid old gentlemen wearing baseball caps.
God I hate old chaps wearing caps. And there are too many men heading for death in my area who insist on clamping a black or white baseball hat to their shrinking heads. Don't make a fool of yourself grandad, caps are for kids and so to see you getting in my way outside the post office trying to look so American will be sickening.
By the way my dad wore a trilby once and he looked gorgeous but then he's the kind of fella that looks good in anything.
Mum however needs a lot of help.

5. Stand in the garden with brows furrowed wondering when I'll rip open the gravel sacks.
The sooner I stick my gentle fists into the bits the better. I always feel better when being activated in the garden.

6. Look out of the bedroom window thinking about Graham the gardener. He'll be in my area next Monday so I might bell him telling him that my back area needs attention.
He'll probably want paying but I dare say we'll come to an arrangement over that. One back garden=One great dinner.
Whaddya say:)

Michael Gove

I'm already in a state of extreme agitation and, dare I say it, excitement because the pre-election hyperbole is fantastic! I love getting in a lather when hearing the same old nonsense spewed out by tenacious politicians who would rather sell their grandmothers eyes than lose their well paid jobs. Blah de blah de blah. Yet however much I rant at the telly and however much I down my spatula when slick Dave cruises around in his shirt sleeves I simply cannot get enough election coverage.

Watched it all day yesterday, only easing up to watch the the second instalment of the overly long MasterChef final. Witnessed olde Brown being held together by his cabinet colleagues on the pavement outside number 10. Then flashed to Dave witnessing to the converted by the seen-it-all-before Thames. Cleggy just came out with wifey and sort of said stuff of which I can't recall much.

The Queen, bless her, was helicoptered in to disolve Brown's lumpy government thereby giving all of us the chance to kick Brown out if we so wish...I wondered, as I watched her Majesty's helicopter whether or not she should have driven to Buck house. But that was just the 'green' in me surfacing.
Anyway, all the t.v. channels gave excellent coverage of this most important day, the BBC's Welsh anchorman, the podgy but quite nice, Huw Edwards emoted like a true professional but kept glancing downwards which really agitated me , he must have been shooting glances at his monitor or laptop or something of that ilk. Still, he kept me informed on the goings and goings from Number 10. By the way as Huw stood in Downing Street I wondered what foreigners would think of the Prime Minister's house. Standing there as it does in a row of posh terraced houses, and the windows shrouded in ghastly net curtain. Take it away.

Over on Sky, Jeremy 'I'm so slick it's unreal' Thompson oiled his way through the shenanigans looking more like a movie star than journo and that's fine with me. Because after copping an eyeful of Gordon Brown anyone will do. But that doesn't include Tory Scary Boy Michael Gove, he is plainly the son of Satan. Oh God.

So yeah, I'm loving the pre-election waffle, banter and lies. Roll on 6th May that's what I say.


Humdrum Bungalow Stuff #1

I bought 1.5kg of bird seed
2 small swinging 'England' footballs to hang in my car.
3 huge sackfuls of 10mm gravel (various shades of brown)
Pork chops.

May The Best Glo Win

Never mind about Brown, the boy Cameron or Cleggy, I've started my campaign...

See 'Vote For Glo' in my favourite sites...



The Rt Hon. Rev. Dr. Gloria Horsehound M.P.
:)

Apple Flan Update...

It took MasterChef, University Challenge and two episodes of Extras for it to firm up. But I don't want it now 'cos I had a hot cross bun.

Bed Report....Bed Report....Bed Report.....
It's yielding, it's waiting, and my yellow earplugs have fluff on them.....




Goodnight All.

The Apple Flan Hasn't Set Either:)

It's the Masterchef Final tonight and I am supporting someone whose name I can't spell...Dhuva is his name whether the spelling is right I don't know.
He is an excellent sweaty cook who suffers enormously for his talent and I clearly identify with that, being a woman whose cup cake tantrums are legendary.

My buns drove me bonkers today. As have my attempts at drawing...

_ _
*_*

The second batch of dough rose and baked. Bread cooling off now by the kettle.

My Hot Cross Buns came up a treat even though I committed the sin of forgetting to do the cross.
And it was all Max Von Sydow's fault! So engrossed was I by his blue eyes and Hollywoodized spirituality that I lost my way completely.
Turned the film off then, it was rubbish.

E Pluribus Unum

Tried doing too many things at once...Result 1.5kg of yeastless dough. But being resourceful and highly artistic we spent the following hour creating 'objects' out of the sad old dough..

Bells.
Rope.
Snake.
The letter 'A'
Swirly something.
Hat.
Rosebud.
Ladder.
Dildo.
Crucifix.

Raising the gas bill today...

Roast Lamb with rosemary
Lemon carrots
Spuds
Thick rice pudding

I don't blog on Sundays.

Ta ta

Milky Drink Time

After a riveting evening I decided it was time to lay me old bones down to rest. So being a gentle soul I pressed my bare feet into the threadbare carpet and wandered off along the hall to bed. Only for Monty to go into attack cat mode and, by the darkened bathroom, jump from nowhere and tackle my ankles like a fat arsed wrestler.

"You no good tyke" I said, as I wriggled and bled. Then I immediately collapsed to my beautiful knees in mock death mode where we fought like cat and basket case. He, swirling about like a thing possessed, me enraptured by the mugger moggy. I tumbled, he fumbled, and with each tightening grip I laughed whilst dragging him along like a sack of old coal. Laugh? More like the aches and groans of love. So fascinated was I by his obvious show of adoration and trust that I knelt down by the hall mirror and thanked the funster for being him
Meanwhile he just looked wild eyed and carried on roughing me up.
And that's the way I like my males. Funny, fat and with aggressive tendencies.
Oh and stupid.


Goodnight All

Slept well. Whatever that means. Got out of bed gasping for a cuppa but before even putting the kettle on I roughed up some more bread dough. I think the result was well worth the gasping. See above.

Yesterday's dinner was a bit queer on account of my need to ditch the norm in favour of the odd. I thought a raita would cool down the spicy chicken so mixed a chopped apple and spoonful of mint sauce into a bowl of Greek yoghurt. Result? Orgasmic sounds from the old bloke.
Rice went a bit strange and glutinous because of the addition of turmeric, taste buds liked it though. I did not imbibe of the wine much because it was a bit out of place on the table of heat, instead I opted for Adam's ale. The picture however tells a different story, but I swear I didn't get squiffy. I always look like that on a Saturday night.

Naans were a tremendous success. Very fluffy interiors with a crisp outer. Perfect for breaking in a theatrical fashion. I did not mumble a prayer though because that would have made John feel uncomfortable what with him being so secular and awful.

The miserable looking tyke loitering on the windowsill is 'Lincoln'. He is made of some heavy material and cost £15. His belly dutifully holds my towel and I love him so much I talk to him about this and that. The kitchen sink is my soap box I chatter to the birds, Monty and now to Lincoln. Never has a woman been so crushingly frustrated.

The huge panoramic pic was made by John on account of 1. He's a fantastic photographer. 2. I bought him a camera. 3. He bought himself a new Tripod. 4. Photography is his passion above anything else.
But he does so get in my flipping way when he's in the kitchen.
***IF YOU WANT TO INSPECT THE PIC YOU MIGHT NEED TO CLICK ON IT. I DON'T KNOW.***

Heating up the kitchen today:
Lasagne made with the usual Bolognaise and a creamy Red Leicester cheese sauce. I'll probably have a slice or two of bread as well. For pud, ice cream and pins and needles...I do so love sitting with my legs tucked.

Ta ta