Taking a break...

Oh Boy!

Today's Love Quote has made me think...

What I love.
And what it says about me.

Philip Glennister.
Lemons.
Old bags.
Red lipstick.
Talent shows.
Port Wine.
National and International Politics.
Football.
Chicken legs.
Horror stories.
Jesus.
Clint Eastwood.
Dancing.
True Love.
Flirting.
Pub Lunches.
Harry Hill's TV Burp.
Yesterday Channel.
Flowers
Geeks.
Hairy chested Meat luggers.
Cats.
Birds and the Bees.
Richard Dawkins.
Documentaries about how to make a nuclear bomb
Prunes.

So after looking at that lot I must be bonkers!

Masterchef tonight, the task being to cook a nice meal for 200 guests.
Ummmm.
Cooking for three or four gets my apron strings in a twist.

(By the way there's some footie action tonight Inter Milan v. Marseilles or somebody. Foreign.)

Having said that I've just made a St. Clement's Swiss Roll, never done this one before, my Rolls usually the jammy type. But this one looks and sounds so yum I had to bake it.

The cooked sponge is now resting under a damp teatowel, probably lie there until I've finished my tea and boiled mum's eggs.
Then an orange and lemon syrup is poured over it and again it's left to rest...Not over mum or her eggs of course but over the sponge.
When it's all sunk in and the cake is fully moist, I lay down some orange curd and whipped cream.
I'll probably just look at it or a mo. then do the rolling up..always a tense time, the roll usually splits in a small way on its upper side, but doesn't take away any of the goodness and pizazz.

Later on I'll be treating Monty to a small piece of unfortunate pollock.

Old

Bakeathon completed. Dozen Bakewell Maids. Dozen Madeleines. One Red Berry trifle.
Tomorrow night's meat pie chilling, fridgeside.
Cat fed and watered.
Likewise plants.
I'm going to bed now:)

I'm A Twit With An Artistic Streak

Let me tell you why.

Most people with bulbous knees would refrain from hauling furniture from one dusty spot to the other but not me. Yesterday, with joints aflame, I dragged a badly painted bookcase from the hall into the kitchen and all on account of a seagull clock.

The wonderful charity shop find (CLOCK) was very at home on the windowsill but something wasn't quite right. Something about its stark in yer face position rubbed me the very wrong way so, with artistic hat on I dreamt up something new.

I know I thought, I'll put it by the chipped pillar, only thing was I hadn't a thing on which to mount it. That's the clock not the pillar.
After limping around the kitchen looking thisaway and thataway I came up with the brilliant idea of
the hall bookcase.

I love it when my mental lights come on and all manner of crazy ideas inhabit my head and, without a thought about knees, the bookcase was soon in place.
But at a price.

Right in the corner by the 'window with no purpose' and the 'pillar which holds up the ceiling' is Monty's Armchair and he was sprawled upon it like a miserable old man shagged out by downing too much wallop, but I needed to shove the chair a little to the right to get the bookcase in.....Monty's head spun and his likkle eyes took on a bemused what you doing this to me for look. I did it anyway.
Bitch Mum.

And there, after knocking it into position with my hips, stood the empty old bookcase. But it wasn't empty for long.

On it's three shelves were placed all my recipe books, well maybe not ALL, but a good majority, if I were to place ALL my tattered food books on it, there'd have been no room for the SEAGULL CLOCK.
And it does look cute and sweet and ever so slightly Nordic especially as I've also arranged some blue and white objects amongst the books. Blue and white jugs and vases and a broken blue flowered teacup, this teacup is handleless but so in love with it am I that I won't chuck it. Even when something one loves is of no use any more one would need to be a monster to abandon it.
By the way John did his bit by staying in the front parlour...

Today no such extreme physical activities will occur unless one calls making a tray of Tiffin physical activity.
An Everest of ironing will be looked at likewise a Snowdonia of felled branches. But I am not Superwoman and neither is John except maybe when he takes an interest in my lipstick, so today's agenda is of a more cerebral kind. A little gentle home cooking followed by the reading of my comments.


Ta ta!

A Fresh and Lovely Sunday

Chicken spitting.
Monty kipping.
Mr H. decapitating the Forysythia.

I will, a little later on, dredge up from the bowels of this computer, my rough draft of a magazine piece.

I can not write for grown-ups in offices who trawl through thousands of 'pieces' sent in by silly women who think they can write.

Seems to me that my talent for words is only suitable for the eyes of the few, not for the eyes of many thousands. I loathe self-hatred.

But after pecking at the chicken, I'll edit and scourge and tamper with my 250 words about middle-age.
Probably be left with one word. Invigorating!


Ta ta!

On the table tonight:
Nasi Goreng. Cat.

This favourite of mine will be served in one of my favourite bowls, bought of course, in a charity shop. And will be eaten quietly with a glass of water and on-table feline. Yes, Monty has his own place at the table, with his very own mat, paper napkin and vibrant green plate
His vicious furry salivating mouth will chew for seconds on delicate rice and tender veg and then his perfect paw will persuade me to shove more in his direction. And I will of course obey.

He will not have pud because blackcurrants are for fools...Although if I splatter some double cream his way he might decide to join me.
Cats are great aren't they?

Did a stint at Henry's today and and as I slightly scorched a lilac shirt I dreamt about the weekend. Curry, clothes and lemonade and suddenly the smell of burnning polyester didn't seem so bad.

Mrs Slocombe and Me? Twins Separated At Birth!

I have a giant pussy called Monty he's an oleaginous, suety, broad-in-the-beam feline and he's my baby.
But he does have his ways...

He scales my mighty kitchen cupboards just so he can clamp his furry mitts on my tiny tuna sandwiches.
His cat-like eyes watch me as my tin opener vibrates in a purposeful manner, just so as I can satisfy my late night hungers. Trembling, I can often be caught struggling with my giant fork in order to lay bits of fish in between well buttered slices of Hovis.
He never, not for one minute, takes his eyes off my crustless triangles.

On account of me being a woman with a condition, I often feel the need to be prostrate whilst eating, and last night was no exception.
As the news come on I was propped up on the settee and was just about to have a large finger roll closely followed by a nice Flake when all of a sudden Monty lunged at me best Wedgewood and sent me tuna chunks flying. And seeing as I was fagged out I thought bugger it let him lick it up.
So he did.

And I do so love to see a large male with an big appetite, because being a lady I have matriarchal tendencies, which take the form of mollycoddling and catering to everyone's whims. I also like pampering and indulging large fur balls.
And my Monty is certainly one of them.

So if you hear screams tonight emanating from a small English village just off the A127, you can rest assured it'll be only me tossing round me lounge trying to salvage bits of tuna from the jaws of my giant pussy.
Goodnight.
Now where's me opener?

Do Not Disturb

On my desk sitting next to a mug of Ovaltine are seven poems.
I can't decide which ones to take along to the Poetry Group tomorrow evening, shall I take 'Woman' or 'Love Monster' or 'A Beautiful Melody'.
I expect I'll make the decision just before I step into my black patent shoes at 7p.m.

Monty is by my side, he's limp and groggy because he's been up a long time and he's jam packed with cheap tuna.
So before I steep myself in Vaseline I'll gaze at the big fat lad and try to imagine how it feels being a cat.

My Hairy Alarm

Monty jumped on me at five forty five a.m.
"Fish" he whispered as his mighty cat mouth delicately removed my earlobes.
"Whatever you say Mont" I half grinned "You're the boss".
So as I slapped on my glasses and slipped into my slippers I felt nothing but love for my half ton, fat tummed, angel chops :)


After obeying him I stood in the shower and started thinking about other things.
Things like:

Sausages. Toad-in-the-hole for tea
Prescriptions. I remember when they were twenty pence.
Spots. I'm not sixteen no more yeah, just go away !
Insect Bites. Buggers.
Heavy duty poetry. But not about the war.
Ankles. Getting bigger?
Growing my hair. Want to be wild again.
Morgan Freeman. Get well soon you wonderful actor you.
Coco Pops or Porridge for brekkie? Pops are fun Podge is worthy.
Trousers or skirt? Depends what zip I can do up easily


And as I gently scrubbed off yesterdays dirt with a big old purple brush I looked down and screamed out
"What's that?!!!"
Old age is horrid.

Monty was waiting and listening outside the bathroom and as I stepped over him he rugby tackled me.

Coco Pops.

He's My Tuna Lover

Fed Monty canned Tuna at 5:30 a.m. wearing a red winter dressing gown. That's me, not Monty.
Drank too-milky tea at 6 a.m. and tutted and huffed.
Listened to Farming Today and had a tremendous urge to jump on a cow.
Looked in mirror and saw a grumpy big eyed brownish face with a couple of spots. Wondered if I was a cow.
Listened to the Today programme and wanted to phone someone to complain about interruptions and giggling.

Brown's been battered again, this time by the S.N.P. in the Glasgow East by-election. The Scots are not daft. I'm wondering how much longer the bods at Labour H.Q will allow Heathcliffesque Brown to remain in the top job. I think he's a liability, a handsome liability, but a liability nonetheless.
I wonder what he looks like in a wet white ruffled shirt?
Talking of wondering:
I wonder where I can get some cheap Tuna.
I wonder what I'm going to wear today, will I be pounding my mean village streets in combats or will I be dancing to the Punchbowl pub in a flimsy floral frock?
I just don't know.

Tall proud Scottish misery guts Andy Murray is playing today. I wish the Brit well.
I'm trawling through poems to take to the Poetry Group....In August. I've got a lot of poems!
Monty is sitting by his bucket. I think he wants more Tuna.

Have a smashing day everyone.

Beware! A Humdrum Post.

Oh my God!
Busy or What?!
Polishing a gentlemen's knick knacks.
Destroying onions.
Singing to Monty.
Jiggling around my office to Motown.
Compensating for middle age with pretty luscious lipstick.
Erotic thoughts as I fiddle with a vacuum extension.

Humdrum post?
Oh Yeah Baby!

A Slice of Poetry

Here's my Strawberry Cheesecake.


I want to taste it right away
on this strange and silly summers day
when slinky cats do sing quite loud
and humble sparrows are feeling proud
when big red dogs yell verses in the park
and good simple men will make their mark

But I am small and patient and thin
and so I'll have to wait
for that perfect first slice of sweet red sin
to grace my fine china plate.

Magical Monty

It's Friday.
And it's a typical mid-summers day, cloudy and warm with a ladylike wind brushing through the trees.

Pencilled in my kitchen diary for today is:
Make a Strawberry Cheesecake.
Marinate Chicken breasts in yoghurt, turmeric, cumin, cardamon and lemon juice.
Make tiny triangular Samosas.
Look lovingly at a Lime.

Monty came in to see me very early this morning, his grunting and singing nigh on deafening me, so as I squinted at his big coal lump of a head, I knew there could never ever be any other animal for me. I had been thinking about adopting a Greyhound, having been brought up with them, but because I love Monty so much and have built such a fab friendship with the no-good tyke, I realize that he is the only male thing for me.
The retired racing dogs will have to wait.

Am currently reading short stories from one of my favourite anthologies, namely Lord Halifax's book of ghost stories. I really have quite a thing for the supernatural, must be because I'm passionate about all things ethereal. But that's a subject for another post.

Must go now, there's a knight coming along my drive on a white horse...

Loving

Thanks to my Duch for commenting on yesterdays 'List' post.
Just a thought, if you add a 'T' to Duch it makes er....Dutch and that is cockney rhyming slang for 'Mate'. I'd better explain. 'Dutch Plate' = Mate!

I can't imagine what we'd feel like the Duchess and I, when on one chilly summers day, we finally clap our minces on each other. She'd most probably grab me and say 'HI my feisty old Queen'. and I'd probably shake her hand and say 'Hello Madam, how do you do?' I don't think so!
I think we'd hug and kiss then do London on Gin and Tonics! I love my Duch.

-Monty was on the bedroom windowsill at 6:30 and with each coo from the resident pigeons, his tail thumped the window.
I did not go back to sleep.
But oh how I love him.

-I'll try and get my winning ghost story on here some time this month, I'm having issues with 'size' or something, oh I don't know , anyway what I do know is this techno stuff drives me bonkers.
But I do so love it!

Home

Monty is black and very asleep.
I am red and very awake.

The old girl had me up and down ladders with sponges, cloths and buckets of vinegared water "I'll soon see any smudges when the sun shines" she said viciously
"Then let's hope it rains" I said joyfully.
She did not laugh.

Her never ending demands were not in the job description, I wasn't told I'd be moving beds, radiators and heavy crates. I thought I'd be polishing silver and avoiding breakages of fine porcelain.
Wrong.

At one point I was standing without my shoes and socks, on a piece of cardboard, on top her work counter trying desperately to dislodge a stuck window
"Don't open it too much, I just want a bit of air I don't want her next door hearing everything I say."
"People don't care about hygene any more" she spat "No wonder children become ill, all this disgusting convenience food mothers cook, when I got married I made my own stock, now they use granules"
"Most people don't have the time to boil bones any more." I quipped as I pulled on my pink ankle socks
She ignored me.


I limped out of her castle with aching arms and much more muscular legs , I verily raced up Oxford Road did a right into Spencer Gardens and then a gentle left onto Brays Lane. And boy oh boy did those gravelly grey roads look silken and violet to me.
The sky seemed wider too and even more bluer , the frilly netted windows in the pebble-dashed bungalows appeared almost classy and the rows upon rows of colourful cars looked like fantastical jewels set alongside an alabaster pavement
OK, I know I know, too much purple prose and a bit over the top, but I need to feel 'me' again because I'm used to doing what I like when I like and with whom I like, and the merest detour tends to send me into a tizz.
And this tizz was particularly sickening.


The old girl, whose skeletal head looked almost too heavy for her frail frame, went on and on about her 'selfish neighbours' her 'irritating sons' and her dislike of all things modern. It was a very tiring experience, I can tell you.

Her house seemed to have stopped living, it's decor harking back to the the 1950's.
"Axminster carpets" she said pointing to the hall floor "Are the best, they'll see me out" she said stamping her stick into the red and gold pile.
"Yes they are and yes they will" I said, feeling like a wicked step-daughter.
She did not laugh and I looked at my watch...


Her never ending vitriolic outbursts about the local council, asylum seekers, her absent daughter-in-laws, her wayward grand children and her 'nasty slut' of a neighbour made me wish I wasn't there. But that was nothing compared to the contempt she had for previous employees, "She wouldn't do anything without her stupid rubber gloves" she said of one "She was a very flighty girl from a bad family in Dagenham, her father was in Tin"
I couldn't believe my ears and I was most uncomfortable.
So God knows what she'll think of me when I say bye bye next week.

Now Monty and I are going into our untidy kitchen and I'm going to put on the telly and watch News24 as I lovingly prepare an e-coli laden bolognaise.
Complete with cat hairs.

Wake Up Or I'll Blast You With GMTV!

Monty is my unofficial alarm clock.
The little blighter woke me at God knows what time this morning, all I remember thinking is 'It's still dark' and 'I wonder what a poodle would do at four in the morning?' Don't get me wrong, I love the little bundle of fur but his pre-dawn jaunts into my bedroom are having an effect on both my health and looks, but I soldier on.
Having managed a bit of breakfast I'm now off down the road to climb a lady's ladder with a feather duster and a smile.
See you later

Jake, The Fox And The Sparrow

Looks like another very fine day.
Will pop out for bird seed and a card then stroll back to tend to my tomatoes.
Here are a couple of 'pastoral' poems I tend not to write much about Mother Nature because I stay indoors a lot.

Impudent Jake, the cat from over the way
lazily stares at my peeling frontage
and
without moving even one eyelid
dismisses me
Another silly human trying her best.

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

The lone fox, his nostrils ripped wide open
scurries to the flowered bountiful plate left out by the quiet widow.
His slot of a mouth
with lapping tongue stuck out
gallops up the ladies cat food.

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

Mother sparrow
fills baby sparrow
with bits left out by
the childless woman.
The woman hoists herself up and balancing on
her steel sink sups her tears
as her feathered baby's yelling gaping mouth puts all the children in all the world to shame.

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

Simple Pleasures

*Leapt for joy when the metal skewer went clean through an old Tupperware cake box because now I could plant on a couple of tomato plants. I'd been pushing stuff out of the way in my disgraceful garage in order to find some plant pots, found a few, but not nearly enough, so not being one to give up easily I left the garage and headed to the kitchen. Nothing in there but an old tupperware box.

*Stood stock still when a strange tabby cat leapt over my already damaged garden gate. We eyed each other. He was unsure and so was I, so we stared at each other, our eyes fixed, mine on his beautiful head, his on my appalling outfit. He legged it. I said 'cheerio pussy' and lifted my soiled hands to my shorn head and thanked the gardening gods for this sweet moment.

*I found a shoot of a long dead Clematis straining to keep erect, being a romantic fool I looked at it wistfully and thought Mother Natures a determined old girl, but I'll lend her a hand to so I got a tie-back and er....tied it back to the drainpipe. I'll be watching it.

*By this time I'd had two cups of tea.
*Monty growled at a pigeon on the ariel.
*He then got on my lap and I ran my fingers through his long black and grey hair. I wanted to eat him. But that would be cruel. So I let him smell my scent and dig his claws into my thighs. Happy puss.
*I've been thinking about things today and not all domestic.
*Am listening to music as I write this and feel like standing on the chair and whooshing my skirt about.
*Monty is asleep.
*Here's something I wrote for lady gardeners everywhere

Gather your skirt into simple folds
and tuck them between your aching knees
swish a soiled hand around your face
feel the falling dirt land upon your nose
taste it as it lays upon your lips
And do not resist the urge to remove your clothes and run in and out of the bushes
Give in to the desire to dance around the Japanese Maple
feeling the weight of your wonderful unbound breasts
you'll stretch with secateurs
hop with the how
and laugh as you wield your lopper
Enjoy your work...

Poor Old Girl

I simply MUST have a word.
With all that's occurring in the Horsehound house at the moment it will come as no surprise to you that I am feeling a wee bit overwrought. Indeed I felt so brittle this a.m. that I had to venture into the garden and talk to the birds. They of course dissed me as any sensible bird would, but to be laughed at by one's very own cat was just too much to bear. Yes, on re-entering the house that no good tyke Monty, ignored me plaintive cries and stuck his bonce into a plate of Sardines."Monty my son" I said "Mummy's all alone and in dire need of a cuddle". "Shut up loser" he said "Or I'll scratch your varicose veins".
He loves me really.

On a more upbeat note I do have something to look forward to this week, that being, watching my beloved England taking on the U.S.A on Wednesday. Course it's only a friendly, but I'll still put me footie shirt on and throw missiles at the telly.
I will, as with all England games, lob swear words around me front room, shoot to me size fours any time we come within half a mile of scoring and I'll definitely scream blue murder if we lose. But it makes me happy and keeps me out of the kitchen for ninety minutes.

On my rain splattered agenda today, cooking, doing industrial type things with hammers and putting petroleum jelly under me eyes on account of the rings which are present on account of late nights and early mornings.
I soldier on.

If I get the time I'll be posting some Audio. It's me reading the second part of Clive Stiffjont. I do sound terribly drunk.

What else?
Oh yes, I'm thinking, just thinking mind you, of joining a poetry club either here in Essex or in the bowels of the Smoke so as I can read out loud some of the great poems what I write.
It might be fruitful and it might even make me laugh.
Now that WOULD be worth the train fare...

All Visitors Must Wear A Hard Hat.

I don't do do-it-yourself. I get in a lather. Especially in the bathroom.
My bathroom used to have a ceiling, now, on account of numerous mishaps, bad management and laziness I'm compelled to wear a helmet and rubber trousers on entry.

It all started out normal enough, a bit of a dripping from the radiator, a crack in the ceiling and a succession of cats destroying me best thick linoleum, but what really turned a once pretty spring like washing area into an ugly Armaggedon was Peter the evil Plumber.

One day the cold tap on the sink wouldn't turn, so being a bit of a tom-boy I decided to have a go meself. I tried Vaseline, Olive Oil, WD 40 and Fairy Liquid. Nope, not a hope, so eventually I slapped on me Anti-Wrinkle cream, didn't get it going just made it look smoother.
So I got Peter in.

After a couple of expensive hours he not only managed to bleat on about every conceivable subject under the sun but managed to work up a little sweat drinking tea and demolishing me coconut fancies. He finally, after much munching and moaning replaced my sweet little cold tap with a brute of a tap.
He left considerably richer and fatter while I sat on the edge of the bath poor skinny and fuming.
From that day on things went from bad to badder, because I think Peter not only brought his extreme right wing views along with his spanners, but a tool belt full of evil bad luck too!

But there was one happy clean soul in the Horsehound household.
That soul being the great and brainy Mr Horsehound, who, feeling mightily chuffed with the tap of hate, then decided the crack in the ceiling needed attending to.
Oh, dear, oh deary deary me.

Never in the history of do-it-yourself has one man managed to make such a monumental cock-up. He did try bless him, and every fragrant weekend there he was, up his big ladder with pots of white stuff. Jolly good I thought to meself when he started on the first day, but then as it went into its third semester I began to lose the will to live, cook and wash.

It did not go up or in or stay put or set or dry or whatever it was that was supposed to happen.
It just fell onto his misbegotten head.
I like grey haired men, but not ones who look like horrible workmen. I just don't do sole traders.

Anyway I digress, one day as he was patting on some more white stuff I said "Leave it dear, you've had a go, I'll cover the ceiling with pictures by Michelangelo
With that he limped off his ladder and read a book about Aliens.

The lino is striated and scarred.The taps are stiffening up again. The radiator is waiting for someone to take care of it. And the ceiling is hanging by a thread.

I once had a verdant green spring-like bathroom it's now an oxidzed autumnal skip.
Bit like me.
Rusting but still dripping. But oh, how my new blue curtains hang defiantly.