Yesterday, I woke up with a blocked nose hole but I reckoned, if I was careful, I could survive the day’s breathing on one nostril only. I have to stress, this was a gay rambling day, guaranteed to be a titter and a half, so, I donned my cagoule and chunky socks, dropped a Cox into my pocket and whizzed down to the station to meet the gang. The walk, just outside Haywards Heath, was sublime: we marvelled at a huge viaduct, oooed and aaaahed at the pretty snowdrops and laughed ’til we felt sick, when one of our party slipped on his arse in a claggy field. By lunchtime, I was Coxless and desperate for food but what was this, on arrival at our pre-arranged pub pitstop, we were met by three members of the Russian mafia; one was as wide as he was tall, another was the spit of Doctor Zhivago and all three had hair coming out of their nostrils and their ears. Luckily, after a quick frisk, we were allowed in – but only because we’d booked a table. Post-lunch, regretting our orgy of Vimto and chunky chips, we plodded the last mile or so back to the station, where, inspired by the mist and a man with a whistle, I came over all Jenny Agutter and started running up the platform, crying ‘daddy, my daddy’. Unfortunately, before I could get the second ‘daddy’ out, I’d fallen over a small dog and lay bleeding, my right leg ripped to shreds – yet again. Bang goes that knee modelling assignment.
Archive for the ‘food’ Category
I’m in mourning for my tomatoes. They have blight. Goodbye tomato chutney, farewell tomato soup, hasta la vista gazpacho. On a plus note, my butternut squashes are swelling nicely and my courgettes are the size of sex toys although I am having to keep this from Len, the sex tourist allotmenteer down the way, as I fear he may use the size of my gourds as an excuse to start a conversation about how his Philippino internet bride refuses to ‘eat’ his ‘vegetables’. Talking about being in mourning, on another note, I went to a funeral yesterday (for a person, not a vegetable). It was a long drive so naturally, on arrival, I urgently needed the lav. However, this being a small village, there were no public toilets, both pubs were closed and the man in the petrol station, (a swarthy type who gobbled his words so badly I had to ask him to repeat himself five times), told me their loo had a blockage. Luckily, I am a black belt at al fresco weeing so I hopped over a hedge (not easy in kitten heels and a pencil skirt) and did my business in a field. However, unlike the time I relieved myself on the hard shoulder of the M40, I had no audience. Never mind.
Today, I am wearing nail varnish and eating banana cake. I have also brushed my hair so have the look of the wild woman of Borneo. Am wondering if I will always have big hair or whether at some point, it will start shrinking. I most definitely do not want to be like the woman down the road who sweeps her front step with a fag and a beehive. She’s at least 70 (I don’t know how old her beehive is). Point is, when will I be too old for crazy hair? Come to think of it, is ‘black tulip’ too harsh for my aging fingertips? And should I take a fresh look at my knickers? So many questions. On a positive note, I’m glad it’s getting colder and I can get my support tights out; they do wonders for my baggy knees.
After a fun packed summer of deflated air beds, vicious stinging nettle injuries and a very wet bottom sustained while listening to moanie musicians on harps, I’ve got that back to school feeling; keep getting the urge to polish my shoes and cover my books with nasty wallpaper. I’m also scanning the local press for stimulating courses like felt making or bongo for beginners. Of course, it’s vegetable city at my place at the moment. And where there’s a glut, there’s a chutney to be made. What else to do with courgettes the size of truncheons? Of late, there’s been a bit of heat in my back yard (not a euphemism) but evenings are turning a little chilly. In fact, my good friend E tells me his inverted nipple was out for five hours yesterday so I know it’s time to bring out the woollies. Oh, and I’ve heard the ‘C’ word twice already and Asda is selling crackers. Actually, forget the bongo and felt making; I need something more dynamic – maybe Meditation for people who want to kill during Chhrrrrr….. See, can’t even say it.
It’s been a very eventful, very messy week on the allotment. I’ve had manure in my hair, snail poo under my nails, plus I ripped my arm open on a sweet pea wigwam. I also had to have a strong word with Ted, the allotmenteer with the Filippino internet bride who doesn’t like root vegetables, who, when engaged in a conversation about rhubarb, casually brushed my bottom with his hoe. I said ‘Ted, just because I’ve eaten one or two of your Jerusalem artichokes, does not mean you can make free with my buttocks.’ He didn’t laugh, although he has a very hairy face and I’m never sure where his mouth is. I have made a mental note to stop weeing in my compost as I fear, this may have led him to believe I was up for allotment petting.
‘I am Love’ should be retitled ‘I am noisy’. Sumptuous, elegant, seductive, yes. But boy, did the Recchi household, with its endless wooden floors, take a battering from all those high heels. It was clip clop, clip, clop, clip, clop, upstairs and downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber. I didn’t see a patch of carpet, or a pair of slippers, just a lot of sliding doors and swishy scarves. Tilda had some lovely china and an assortment of Alice bands but then she got ravished by a chef and decided a bob was more practical, what with all that buccolic rumpy pumpy and hanging around in hot kitchens. Talking of hot kitchens, the film had a strong flavour of Master Chef, what with all the food close-ups. One minute they were smacking their lips over an upmarket Cornish Wafer, the next dishing out what looked like cabbage water with somebody’s foreskin in it. And in one memorable scene, Tilda did a wonderful impersonation of John Torode. I’ve never seen mastication like it.
“What good is sitting alone in your room. Come hear the music play”, sang Liza. So when in Berlin, on a four day city mini-break, I thought, must see the Berlin Philharmonic. However, said orchestra and its crazy haired conductor, Simon Rattle, had gone on its hols to Salsburg which meant we were left with a manky bunch of fiddlers from the former Eastern bloc and their camp conductor, Igor. The concert was called ‘A night in St Petersburg’ so I knew it was going to be a bit Nutcrackery. However, what I wasn’t expecting was a troupe of lumpen ‘dancers’ in nylon ball gowns who couldn’t cock a leg higher than their Slavic crotches. Needless to say, the highlight for me, was the jumbo pretzel in the interval which had an interesting cheesy filling. Other highlights: sitting on a toilet that David Bowie/Iggy Pop may or may not have also sat on, doing the cha cha cha at the gypsy ballroom and losing my passport at the airport on the way home.
Somebody give me a trumpet; I think I’m going deaf. Either that or maybe people are gobbling their words a bit too much (yes Tommy Lee Jones in ‘No country for old men’ and Marco Pierre White in his shepherd’s pie adverts – I’m talking to you). I was in the pub the other night and a man came up to me and asked cheerily ‘are you gay’. Now this may be Brighton where we’re all a bit woolly but even so, I was struck by his audacity. For opening gambits, this was even more shocking than when a man approached me in Bubbles nightclub in 1977 and told me he liked my eyebrows. Anyway, back to pub man, I laughed hysterically (while inside I gave his silly bald head a good slapping). But then it turns out I’d misheard him; he was actually asking ‘are you going’ because he wanted my seat. I need to, a. have my ears syringed, b. learn to lip read or c. get myself a bloody trumpet.
It’s not often that you get to use the word ‘treacherous’ but I’ve used it several times recently to describe conditions outside my front door. I ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ when the first flurries appeared and gaily laughed at the children shoving snow down each other’s pants on their way to school. But then my road became a death trap. ‘Aaaaarrrggghhhh’, ‘wooohhhhhhh’ I cried as the ice rink conditions sent me hurtling head long into a neighbour’s bush. My low point was getting stuck in the middle of the road and having to get down on all fours and crawl home from the pub. On a lighter note, I’ve discovered that the wildlife in my back garden does not like chocolate and chestnut terrine but does like rough puff pastry.
…I was washing my dusters. Christmas makes me go a bit mental on the cleaning front. I’ve been down on my hands and knees washing my skirting boards and have even tackled that oft neglected rear of tap blind spot with a sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda and a squirt of lemon. Came up a treat. Carrying on the Biblical theme, I have also taken on the role of Good Samaritan, walking my neighbour’s dog, pulling another neighbour’s curtains twice daily to confuse burglars and even feeding the poor little sparrows with my left-over cheesy pasta bake. I am now quite au fait with dog shit and after a week of rather challenging curtain duties, have pinpointed the exact amount of ‘yank’ required to avoid pulling them off the rail completely. As to the sparrows, well, there aren’t any but I did get two really ugly crows fighting over a floret of broccoli.