We're Not All In Our Sunhats

Yes yes I know the weather has been swell and all that, but there's no greater love than the love of a Big Brisket.
Whilst all the idiot neighbours go whacko over the rise in temperatures I baste...
And my sizzling browned hunk of cow will soon be sliced and so as not to be too conventional, I'll be serving it not with roast tatties but with lots of creamy buttered mash.
To soak up the gravy and to hold the button sprouts I have an elderly muffin tin loaded with individual yorkshire puds. So adorable. They are puffed, tinged and lopsided and are one of the loveliest sights any old cook can see. ( B.T.W I always use my fingers to eat them, no knife or fork will rip into their little brown bellies)

For pud: Naked Cornish ice Cream. When something is perfect it needs no adornment.

Tonight will be a hoot as we have chocolate and Eddie Izzard.

Now I must preside over my offerings:)

P.S.
I'm being overwhelmed by my love of poetry.. I feel both a need to read and to write...

To all my loyal readers.

Due to a funny turn your beloved authoress decided that she didn't want any Tom, Dick or Hoi Polloi enjoying her output.

Therefore the silly woman attempted to make Her Bungalow accessible to a chosen few however, after a glass of rather decent Zinfandel she (bless) thought " what the finger of fudge, come one come all"

So..many appy polly logies if you have received a cryptic invite from the Googlemachine.

Ignore!.

A cup of coffee and a little sit down...

Gingerbread baking...And after a quickie lookie no dome nor cracked top. Excellent. Back you go...

7 inch vanilla sponge done...Will crown with strawberry jam and coconut. In other words a whopping Madeleine. For Mother. No doilies though.

Too much Bolognaise bubbling...This is for mum's tea tomorrow. Will probably eat it watching all the dreadful news. I hate watching the news now. Much prefer recorded glossy violence like Brad Pitt and Kevin Bacon in 'Sleepers'. Wicked or what?

A pack of sausages lie waiting...Was intent on making a 'risotto'. For tonight . But have left in thy store but ONE onion, and that little beast is needed for Mr Horsehounds supper tomorrow night. Can't burn petrol for one silly onion, so will toss the sos in a bap. It'll be alright.

My right knee is giving me the pip.
Re-homing chives on the back step when all of a sudden TWANG! Felt like a bundle of sticks had been shaken behind my patella. Hope I won't have trouble going down.

Right. Gingerbread is coming out and my coffee is cold!

While The Eggs Boil...

Oh the joy of the key in the lock...

My front garden is looking pretty. Wild flowers, names unknown, lean and lurch confront and withstand all the sudden breezes. By the door.

The rest, a structured jungle.

Bought a brisket of beef and some 'farmhouse' butter from the deli.
Beef and butter.
Just saying it makes the world alright.



Now I must shell and chop the eggs, snip some chives and marry the two together with a generous dollop of salad cream then spread on bread
Film to accompany:)

Then I'll bake a Gingerbread..
Gingerbread.
What comes to mind?
A moist almost wet loaf, fat and full of treacle and crunchy men with currants for eyes.

Thoughts...

I wrote some time back that after dad's funeral I wouldn't mention him again but that obviously was an untruth. I meant it at the time alright but now, in the rotting afterglow of loss and shock I see him in almost everything I do...

Take racing for example...

'Glorious Goodwood' began today it was ,he used to say, the second best meeting in the horse racing calendar, Cheltenham being first.
Cheltenham, where the very best thoroughbred jumpers removed my dad from his everyday working life and into the world where he was most comfortable and happy.
Gambling.

Neither me or mum will watch it again. Neither will we watch Glorious Goodwood. Our doings within betting shops have been put out to grass, no more will he she or I write out a betting slip.
I mean....
How can we as a 'family' ever enjoy anything which gave us so much pleasure, excitement, laughs and cash without dad?
We can't.

A massive chunk has been sawn out of our lives and my silly head is all over the place at this quite uncalled for cheeky loss.



Today I awoke from a long sleep intent on sucking up inches of dust, ironing clothes on the back of chairs and making myself look like a woman again. Instead I watched two films eating buttered toast.
I feel that if I push myself too much I'm likely to come to a permanent stop! I did though feed the birds.

What's around the corner?
Work?
Offer from Henry a sickening no hoper, both the job and man. £20 = 4hours. I am worth more, not because I have a lovely way about me,but because I don't ignore the crumbs under the toaster.

Poetry?
My love.
Whether it's good or bad I don't mind. It's good. Sometimes. Too good that rainy night down by the seaside. The Southend Poetry Society. So good was my reading that I got blanked. Right Digger?
While on the subject I must thank Nof for my present through the post, which will, if nothing else, remind me of just how great I am.



In bed the other night I experienced an intrusion. It came not in the form of a text or kiss but from the creative juice which mingles and mixes within my blood like whisky and the other blessed liquid, water.
The words kept me awake, so quick so right so unsought and dark were these visitors that I decided to let them do as they like.
It was a remarkable night.
No notebook on my bedside table to scrawl down sentence after sentence but for the short while they lived I was in...Heaven? Oh come on, that's just cheesy...
I was in my element...

(There is now a jotter beside the lamp)

Ok.
To do list, mostly unticked but the floors and unironed clothes will be ok if they have to wait another day.

On the weekend's to do list:
Brandied coffee
McDonalds
The Laying On Of Hands. I have no idea whose hands or where they might lay but it sounds so good I think I'll give it a go.

Took mum home today.

She again was given a seat on the tube.

And as we climbed the steps at Royal Oak she felt the need for a sit-down on the wall...

Her pain was clear to see. Pain in her back and arm and pain about returning to an Dad-less flat.
But I was there. To do stuff. Like shopping, paying bills and defending her against nosey old trouts whose idea of a bit of excitement is to stand and stare at a weeping woman.
"What's wrong? I asked the Asian sort in a mad Fatherless sort of manner.
She walked on.
Not going to help then shove off.

I, with the help of a dreamboat taxi driver, manhandled Mother into the back of the cab.

Home. To silence and tea.

I didn't know how today was going to go. It had a couple of surprises.

Firstly I went to collect Dad from the crimson funeral palace on the Harrow Road. God what a road that is. It used to be for swells back in the old days, when going up the Harrow Road for shopping was quite something. Not now, Not in the 2011.
It is a stinking pisshole with not an English shop insight. Not a patch on the clean Road I used to walk. My school was there you see. Anyway there I was walking in the blasted wonderful heat, to take daddy away from a place he hated. The Harrow Road. And home eventually to my back garden...

Got there. And the Mrs was busy so her deputy dealt with me.
Wonderful I thought as a purple bag was handed to me and another form to sign.

I left with dad in my arms and we walked to the bus stop, just me and him, like in the old days.

Home. To silence and disbelief.
"Let's put him on his chair " I said.

"Let's go out to Mr Fish's for a fish and chip lunch" Mum said

So we did, and it was smashing...If things had been different I'd have been given a bloody microwaved Korma.
So thanks again Pop.
X

Lovely lovely warmth...