Way back when I ran the Chick Lit forum at the Big W, a member of the reading group banged on and on and on about Queen Mum being beyond super for hours and hours on end. Quite frankly she bored me to tears for so very very long, that I decided there and then to never read the damn book out of pure bloody spite. How I wish I had stuck to that decision. I mean, it was ok, you know, it pottered along about a couple of neighbours; one (Juno) who had a supposedly perfect life (perfect kids, perfect house, perfect marriage, perfect house, perfect arse) and was so confident in her perfection she applied to appear on reality TV wife swap programme "Queen Mum" with disastrous results; and her side kick Ally, rather more slummy mummy who had lost a child and with it her zest and gumption. I read it all, I did finish it, and trust me, I've read much much worse - but I really expected so much more from the author of The Bad Mother's Handbook.
Next, Chimmy and I got stranded at the pub a few weeks ago. We had had a lovely day together, a bit of a shop, a bit of a wander, a touch of lunch, a tub of fat free frozen yoghurt; then on the way home, we decided to stop off at one of the pubs along the river near Kew Bridge for a couple of lager and limes. The tide was either coming in or going out - who can say - but we got kind of stuck on the benches for about 45 minutes whilst the river flooded the pathway, and left us stranded, surrounded by ducks. It was fantastic, and such a nice end to the day.
I celebrated my first year anniversary at New Work with two boxes of mixed selection from Krispy Kreme. I obviously shared my celebrating, and my buns, with my colleagues - although managed to polish off 3 (yep 3, count them) of the buggers myself. Those glazed bad boys are enough to make me go boss-eyed. I swear, if it was legal to marry a doughnut - I would be Mrs Kreme in a flash.
The Banville-Smiths - life long chums of The House of Piper - hosted a lovely get together in their garden the other weekend. We only get to catch up probably twice a year, so each time it's lovely and precious. And who would have thought the offer of some chocolate buttons would create so much excitement.
Boo and I finally had The Sister, The Brother-in-Law and The Niece over for lunch. I baked bread. I made two different types of ice cream. I made spinach and ricotta lasagne (including a tomatoe sauce from scratch). I made caramelised shallot and Gorgonzola puff pastry tarts. I made a wild mushroom risotto. I made strawberry cupcakes. I made jam tarts. I pulled a salad together.... and after all that The Niece wanted fishfingers and peas for lunch. Boo and I also got special housewarming gifts. We both got a set of four rubbers. Mine were heart shaped, pink, red and purple. Boo's were shaped like tools. Apparently we can swap if we like. I think I'm going to keep mine all to myself.
It has been heaven to walk home from the station these past couple of weeks. Pottering along, headphones on, rucksack on back. Bar flip-flop-shin-ache, it's great to stride along - when I say stride, I of course mean dawdle like a little old lady...and jesus christ it beats getting the bus with all the other sweaty fuckers.
This week my lovely friend Rodney (who is also the most poshest person I know in real life) invited me to super to meet his new BF, together with my favourite lesbian couple who I haven't seen for months. Lovely posh Rodney has the most awesome flat in Vauxhall, and he is truly the host with the most - and it was lovely to relax, chit chat about book stuff, Big W gossip, old ex colleagues who we hate, old ex colleagues we still love... and not one of them made fun of the HUGE cold sore that I currently have on my lip.
This afternoon I slipped off to Walpole Park to have a quick listen to some music and eat some bread and cheese at the Ealing Jazz Festival. I haven't been to the festival for a couple of years, it still feels a bit empty going without my Dad - but I do, or at least did, use to love going - so I thought it was time for a revisit. Well, let me tell you. You now have to pay to get in. OK, it's only £1, but none the less. It's the bloody principle I tell you. Second, you are now fenced in to an area the size of a school playing field. Infant school that is. God only knows what it's like when it gets busy in the evenings. Probably like being stuck on the tube. But without the abandoned copies of Metro flying about. Thirdly, there is no bloody bread and cheese. The French market has been replaced with a bloody German bar and a jewellery shed selling stuff made out of amber. What the fuck? Who on earth wants bloody amber bracelets instead of lovely gooey cheese from French France? Nextly, the lovely soft green grass of the park has been pebble dashed. Or shingled. Or whatever it's called. Did the person who recommended that as a suitable flooring for a festival consider what those tiny little shards of rock do to the underside of your feet if you are wearing flipflops? No. That retard did not think about that. I've already got through two tubes of cracked heal balm this month trying to repair my poor old feet - and now you wanna see them... screwed they are, screwed. However, we did get to hear a set by a fella called Xantone Blacq. Or maybe that's the band's name. Who cares. He rocks. Or jazzes. Or whatever is appropriate. If you get a chance to listen; give it a whirl. Awesome.
I know I've been banned from buying any new books till I finish the piles of proofs I've still got floating about from my days at the Big W. I know, I know.... but I happened to be in the Holborn branch of books etc the other day.... and I happened to find myself in front of the 3 for 2 table.... and the new Louise Candlish winked at me, then the Harriet Evans gave me a nudge... and then Jenny Colgan beckoned me over for a chat.... before I knew what was happening, I'd been book bashed. I've hidden them from Boo under my side of the bed for now. Thank Christ he doesn't read this blog.
This weekend we've got some more bridesmaid dress shopping - with Boo's sister and niece, and some West Side Story action on Sunday at Sadler's Wells. Bar that I refuse to cook, shop, clean or nothing. I will instead be doing lots of sitting. Lots of laying. Down. A touch of eating, maybe some drinking, and if I'm very very lucky, and ask very very nicely maybe, just maybe a bit of kissing. Who knows....
No comments:
Post a Comment