Wednesday 31 October 2012

The Eclectic Word Club

Good morning. It's Wednesday again and time for my guest blogger, Rambler5319 to take over....

 

Are you a member of a club? If you are, why are you? I suppose, logically, you like the activities they do. It might be: a football club because you like football, a tennis club because you like to play tennis, a chess club because you like to play chess, a film club because you like to watch films and so on. These are all clubs where you know what they will be doing by their title.

However I wonder if you’ve ever thought of yourself as being in a club that you didn’t know you were a member of. Bit strange, eh? How could you be in a club or clubs but not know it? I think we all are! Thousands of them. How so? I hear you say.

To find out let’s go back to the clubs I mentioned at the start. People in those clubs have certain words they use which are particular to their activity. They will have special words which those in the “club” know but perhaps those outside don’t: a one-two in Football, roughing and trumping in Bridge, castling in Chess and so on. Some of us, who are not members of that club, may know these terms because we know people who use them or they’ve become used in everyday life but the more technical ones we probably don’t. You only learn them if you need to use them. So far so good.

Each person has a vocabulary of words they use every day in order to communicate. This vocabulary will vary depending on how many words you’ve learnt and whether you know their meanings. It will also depend on your age: young people use words older people don’t and vice versa, scientists use words non-scientists don’t. Words do come into and go out of fashion. You may use particular words to sound trendy (“right on”, “boss”, “cool”, fab etc) or maybe even to sound deliberately not trendy (“spokeshave”).

It’s important to use the correct terms otherwise you will not be able to communicate. Would you expect a mechanic in a garage where you take your car to refer to “the thing under the bonnet”? No, I think you’d expect him to say “the engine”. If there’s a right word use it but to use it you have to know it! And that’s where the learning comes in: get that dictionary out! Now you’re in the club that knows the word “engine” and so on up to the more complicated ones. You can communicate with other people who know the same word but not with those who don’t. Do you see what’s going on here? We’re in lots of these “clubs” but we may not be in all the same ones as our friends.

At the end of the day words are about communication so why use words that most people don’t know unless it’s to sound or look clever? For instance in the 1840s people would not have had a problem with Emily Bronte’s use of words like “asseverate” & “orison”, in Wuthering Heights, but how many of us today know their meaning? In this case you have two options: go and look them up in a dictionary so you know what they mean next time or just try and guess from the context (in which case you’ll never know for certain). If you don’t look them up – why don’t you? In fact why don’t you write them down so you’ll remember them. Now you’re in the “club” that knows what they mean.

The title of this blog gives a further clue. Eclectic is a word which crept into everyday use through music journalism and writers referring to people having “an eclectic taste” in music or an album having an “eclectic mix” of styles. You either look the word up or you don’t understand what they’re talking about. You will tend to pick the words you use based on the situation you’re in: are you speaking with customers, friends or work colleagues? In the container business, for example, you will hear words like Reefer (meaning a refrigerated container or trailer), High-Cube (meaning a container which is 9’6” high instead of an ordinary height of 8’6”) and Flat Rack (meaning a container with no sides or roof, so it just has the base and two ends). Each branch of the armed forces has special words and phrases they use. Each trade or craft also has specialised uses of words. You just have to learn them if you’re going to be able to communicate with others in the same business. You become part of a word club where particular words and language are used. You will also begin to use words that those around you use especially when moving (or travelling) to a new area or country: our cars have bonnets – American cars have hoods, our cars have boots – American cars have trunks, we put petrol in our cars – Americans put “gas” in theirs and so on.

I’m reading a book at the moment (about The Elizabethan period in English history) which, just this week, has given me six words I’ve not come across before: Scabrous, Tanistry, Gallowglasses, Seneschal, Rymor, Self-Exculpation. (My notebook which I’ve mentioned before that I write words in that I don’t know the meaning of is close to the 800 mark now.) So that’s six new clubs I’ve joined because, along with the author, I now know what they mean. And no I’m not telling you what they mean! If you don’t know them……. You know what’s coming next……go and get that dictionary! Find out!

One of the best investments I made was to purchase a dictionary app for my phone. It’s the same dictionary as the hardback paper version I have on my bookshelf but it cost one-sixth of the price and it is with me all the time. It’s also quicker than me at looking up stuff. Those of you with Kindles probably don’t need an app as it includes a dictionary. It’s just a matter of being prepared.

Being in word clubs is a lifelong experience because there are so many of them and new ones come along all the time. Will you join them (by getting that dictionary out) or will you walk past maybe just guessing what’s behind the door? The choice is yours. Have you come across any words you don’t know recently that you could share with us?

(Guest post by Rambler 5319)

Tuesday 30 October 2012

A few follow ups and a ladle of soup

A little while ago, I wrote a post called Sometimes I Think Too Much about a girl who was new in the area and has asked me to go for a drink, in a best-friend-date type of way. Some of you asked about how it had gone.

So here's the story. The next time she came in, she mentioned needing a job, I said we had one. Two and two were put together and they equalled my new potential best friend and I working together. It was all ok for a few weeks. Then she got another job and left. And that was that really. Done.

Clearly I gave it way more thought than it warranted when she asked me out for a drink.

The second thing is that the local drunk who featured in "Are these donuts?" recently took a picture to a gallery nearby to have it reframed. It has been reframed now and, as the owner of the gallery is a friend and has a bad shoulder at the moment, he has asked me to help him go to Mr Red Wine's flat and help him reframe it.

That's right. I get to go INSIDE Mr Red Wine's flat! I am beyond excited. I imagine it'll be like one of those programmes called Grime Fighters or something, where cleaning companies go into old flats which are full of crap and pizza boxes with mould growing on them and rats running around.

My gallery owner friend has pre warned me that we will have to stand on Mr Red Wine's bed to hang the picture and that it is alive with bed bugs. He also said I shouldn't worry about just standing on stuff as I walk in the flat as there is no free floor space anyway.

It is going to be mental, I can tell.

Also, a few days ago, whilst at work, I was leaning over a bowl of soup to get something and there was a ladle in it with a hook on the end, for hanging it up with. Somehow the ladle hook caught on my apron and as I stood back up, I pulled the ladle with me, which was full of soup, and scooped it onto myself. It went all down my front and onto my Crocs and in the little holes and into my feet. Niiiiice.

I just thought you might like that little story.

Monday 29 October 2012

It's something about my aura

A little while ago, a friend at work asked me cover part of a shift for her. It was quite important so she was really grateful when I said I could cover it. She asked what she could do in return and I said I'd like her to write me a song and perform it. Which she did.

Here is that song. I thought you might like to hear it.

Oh Laura

Thank you so much for covering part of my shift,
It really means a lot, if you catch my drift.

Oh Laura, it's something about your aura,
Yeah, your aura, mmm, mmm, yeah.

I hope it doesn't ruin your evening,
Or give you a peculiar feeling,

Yeah, it's your aura. Oh Laura.

Now I will owe you a favour,
As you have been my saviour.

Yeah Laura, it's your aura...

Do you like it? I have also just remembered a song my brother made up when we were little. It wasn't really to do with me but it was to do with something I loved dearly and his intention with the song was to poke fun and try to annoy me.

It went as follows.

"My little pony,
Skinny and bony,
Looked in the mirror,
And saw a gorilla."

So, as you can tell, I am surrounded by musical genius. No wonder I almost became a world famous pop star.

Sunday 28 October 2012

Some things I should admit

I have never seen Kill Bill.

I didn't see Dirty Dancing or Grease till I was about 16.

I bunked off the last half hour of school one day to get a book signed by the first winner of Big Brother.

Often I don't brush my hair.

When I was about ten, I saved up and bought The Smurfs Go Pop album. My favourite song on it was Mr Blobby and The Smurfs, in which Mr Blobby occasionally goes "BLOBBY!" That is his only contribution to the song.

I always used to make up little plans about running away (I had probably seen a film which made it look really fun and easy.

I have a strange fondness for wildebeest. I just think they're quite grand.

I loved loved LOVED the boy from Free Willy. I had a poster of him on my wall, which I used to snog.

When I was little, I named all my teddy bears and cuddly toys and gave them personalities and had a little sitcom-esque imaginary existence with them at bedtime.

It was during these night time role plays with my toys that I perfected my faux American accent.

That's right, I have a faux American accent that I sometimes put on for fun. I think it's ace. I can't speak for anyone else.

I also went through a phase when I was about 17 where I spoke in an Irish accent.

I have lumpy knees.

Sometimes I find the news boring, although I know I should be fascinated and be all aware and things, but sometimes they go on and on, and I realise I'm not actually that interested. Ssshhhh, don't tell anyone.

I don't like Glee. I once watched an episode. It was not the best use of my time.

I also don't like mustard.

I don't think dogs are cute. Even small fluffy ones. They're just dogs.

I love lists.

Saturday 27 October 2012

Coffee (the sequel)

A little while ago, I wrote a post about coffee. About how I had tried, and failed, over the years, to like coffee. I'd worked with it for ages. I knew exactly how to steam the milk and run the coffee so that it might appear more tasty. But none of it had worked. I was quite definitely a tea drinker.

So then we went to Rome, where I made a concerted effort to fit in with the locals and stand at espresso bars sipping on a granita or getting straight in there with a ristretto (not sure about spelling, it means a really short, really strong espresso). And actually, I think it worked. The coffee tasted different there. I'm not sure if there's something different about the way they roast their beans or whatever, but it's different. It didn't make me too hyper. It was bitter, but the coffee taste itself was the overriding memory I have.

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Back in England, I've found that the coffee is more bitter. That's the overriding taste, so that only if I'm really concentrating, can I taste the actual coffee in the background somewhere.

So I thought I'd seize the moment, on arriving back from Rome and start drinking espresso. I've been having one a day, mid morning ish. I have it quite short, about half the size of a standard espresso, with nothing in. No milk or sugar.

What fun! I'm so Italian! Look at me everyone! Look! Look! Watch me drink coffee like a grown up! Look, I'm one of you guys, a grown up. Look!

I'll admit now, it was mostly for show, my self-imposed coffee habit.

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So then, I started getting headaches. Dammit. I found out, through various experiments, that if I drink shedloads of water beforehand and make sure I have some food in my tummy, then I'm ok. If, however, I drink it before I drink water or eat anything, then I start to talk very fast for a while, before suddenly feeling tired and getting a bit headachey.

The headaches seem to have passed now, although I am tired a lot. This could be many things, not the coffee. Maybe I didn't get enough sleep last night (although sometimes I do get enough sleep but I still feel tired), maybe I'm partaking in lots of exhausting activity (not really).....

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I'm not sure. As a newcomer to the world of coffee, I'm unfamiliar with the initiation ceremony. Is this how it goes? Headaches first, then the tiredness, then what....?

Is this the normal route to developing a coffee habit? Can any coffee drinkers out there tell me what to expect next?

Or should I stop now? Stop now while I'm just at tiredness? I mean, it's not like I even notice when I don't drink them. As I say, it's all for show. I'm a bit too lazy to have any kind of actual addiction to coffee.

I should probably just let it go now, hey?

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Friday 26 October 2012

Another Italian feast - the vegetarian version

I must apologise in advance as I forgot to take photos of the antipasti before we dug in and devoured it all... Oops!

After my last post about food, which was posted to Facebook, a friend I haven't seen in a while read it and jokingly asked to come to dinner in a "You-can-invite-me-to-dinner-anytime," kind of way. Spotting an opportunity to prepare another feast, I responded with a genuine invitation. Another friend was invited and the date was fixed. I had a day off so scheduled my day around preparing the food.

We decided to go vegetarian as one of the party doesn't eat meat and I couldn't be bothered to do two sets of food.

And so the fun began.

I started by making the tiramisu slightly wrong by whisking the sugar with the egg whites instead of the yolks. I just kind of put it all together and fridged it and hoped it would taste fine. Then I made little things called Esse biscuits, which are quite specific to Venice, although why a biscuit shaped like an S should be Venetian is beyond me.

Then I ploughed on through the grissini, the music paper, the pesto, the gnocchi, the soup, the lentil dish and some salads. It was 3.30pm, two and a half hours before my guests would arrive. So I did what any reasonable person would do at that point. I had a nap.

I woke up about 5pm and dived back into the kitchen, spearing mozzarella and basil, toasting (burning) bread and taking the truffle butter out of the fridge.

After a little help with directions, my friends arrived, one of them taking charge of toasting new bread as I couldn't seem to stop burning things.

So the antipasti was grissini, music paper, truffle butter, pesto, bruscette with ricotta, broad bean and mint, more bruscette with roasted grape and thyme, roasted walnuts, and goat's cheese. O, and a white bean houmous-type thing, which was unexpectedly delicious. I just used some tinned cannellini beans and heated them gently in a pan with a bit of water, an onion, some bay leaves and a bit of olive oil. Then I removed a few beans, whizzed what was left and left it on a low heat to thicken. I put it in a bowl once finished and put the beans I had removed back on top with a little lemon and white truffle oil.

As mentioned earlier, I only afterward remembered to get a photograph of the antipasti. Here it is.

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Yep. That's all that was left to photograph by the time I remembered.....

Next up was the mains.

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A panzanella, which was well received. In case you are unfamiliar with a panzanella, it's a bread and tomato salad, basically. It's one of those things that I've had a few times and it's been pretty average. A nice homemade panzanella, though, is well worth the effort.

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Here we have; bottom left, a chickpea, fennel and leek soup; above that, the white bean houmous; front right, gnocchi in a cavolo nero sauce; top middle, a zucchini, basil and rocket salad.

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There was also this vegetable lentil dish dressed with basil oil and mozzarella.

Once we'd eaten all that, we were stuffed and couldn't even think about dessert. No, honestly! I can't fit a single thing in! I'm so full. I need a while to let it all go down. What's that? You're getting the dessert out? Just to look at? Ok. O... Well, maybe I'll just have a little try....

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Baked figs on the left and tiramisu in the glasses on the right. We obviously scoffed them. I admitted my sugar-in-the-egg-whites mistake but it was generally agreed that we couldn't tell. 

Next we had coffee and the Esse biscuits.

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A discussion about the film version of Roald Dahl's The Witches then took up the remainder of the evening and I went to bed dreaming of being turned into a mouse....

Thursday 25 October 2012

The walking test

Happy Wednesday all. It's time for my guest blogger to take over again, so here goes. Enjoy!

 

Is it just me or does this happen to you? You’re walking along behind someone when they suddenly, without warning, just stop. Then you notice they’re either on the phone or doing something with their phone or they’ve stopped to tell their child off for something. You do a kind of side-step to avoid walking into them while they seem completely oblivious to the problem they’ve created. Last week I mentioned the incident, in my local supermarket, of someone talking on a mobile phone and leaving their trolley blocking the aisle. (This week, by the way, went without a hitch – result!)

I’ve been thinking of how this problem could be solved. My solution is quite revolutionary (in Rambler-opolis, anyway) – pedestrian lights. That is pedestrian brake lights (& side lights for when walking at night). Now, before you laugh, just bear with me while I explain. They would be positioned on your shoulders with the red lens facing to the back. They could be powered by a small watch size battery. Every pedestrian would have to have them so that people walking behind would know when the person was going to stop (as the red brake light would go on) and can then take avoiding action. Now I’m not sure at this stage whether indicator lights could be added. Wouldn’t it be great if you could tell which way a person was going to turn especially if you were going to do an overtaking manoeuvre just by the lights on their shoulders?

Think about this – we don’t allow people to fly planes, drive trains, captain ships, ride motorbikes or scooters, drive trucks or any vehicle without passing a test. However when it comes to the pavement (sidewalk) we seem to just let anyone do whatever they want. Just as you have to pass a test to drive a vehicle on the road I think there should be a “Walking Test” before you’re allowed out on the pavements. (Kids would be exempt until they reach a certain age.) Until such time as you pass the test you wear an “L” badge (front and back). Once you’ve passed you get a pedestrian licence or walking permit. There’d be an equivalent to the Highway Code for pedestrians – a Pavement Code, maybe? There would also be a Pedestrian Police Force who could catch people breaking the rules; they should definitely catch people talking on their mobile phone whilst walking – this is a big “No-No”. (They could also breathalyse people if they suspect they are “walking under the influence of alcohol”.) In Rambleropolis if you want to answer the phone you must walk to the side of the pavement away from the road where there will be a white line marking an area for stationary pedestrians. It will be roughly the width of one person. (The area could be also used by those wanting to tie up a shoelace that has come undone or adjust their tie or dress in general.) If you are using your phone you should remain still, in this marked area, for the duration of the call. You must stop walking. Once the call, or whatever you’re doing, is over you should check behind to make sure no-one is coming and then cross the line and resume walking in the main area. How easy is that?

This would definitely introduce a bit more order to the chaos of people just walking wherever they want. Then we could look at some more measures like pedestrian speed cameras. This would bring even more order to our pavements. Running would not be allowed as it’s dangerous to those moving more slowly and older folks. Speed cameras would pick up those who disobey, say those exceeding 6mph. Further on as systems develop I think maybe we could develop the idea of a white line down the centre of the pavement. That certainly would be worth looking into. Failing a driving test is something you talk about with your friends & relatives but imagine the shame of failing your pedestrian test. Yes, I think this would really spur people on to be good citizens.

(As a quick aside here, I think there should also be a test for people using trolleys in supermarkets that would include how to position the trolley whilst thinking about what to buy or whilst talking on a mobile phone!)

I can see quite a few nodding heads. I know what you’re thinking – why has no-one ever thought of something like this before? Well to be honest I was wondering that too. I can’t see too many problems with my idea so far so I think it’s off down to the patent office tomorrow to protect my idea from anyone trying to steal it and make a fortune. Remember, in a few years time, when everyone is wearing my invention, you read it first here! I would of course expect to earn sizeable sums of money from the royalties of my idea and will probably buy a decent car with a chauffeur so don’t expect to meet me on the pavement! Oh and finally would like to just wish you all “Happy Walking”.

Wednesday 24 October 2012

Search terms 3

Ok, it's the third installment of the Search Terms posts. In this one, we have your average search about Highgate or Kingston Uni or what to do with bingo wings. But then right at the bottom, a strange Donald Duck search, which must have lead to disappointment when Google sent them to me....

lazylauramaisey
dairylea triangles music
"ici logo"/ "wavy lines"
things to remember while swimming
deaflympics in brazil 2016
are you going to scarborough fair?
vaynites
upstairs downstairs
robinson helicopter garage
the grove highgate george michael
sandy denny maddy prior
once i've finished i dont like them
the song remind me of the good time
london eye chairoplane
inspirational quotes about new adventures
laura maisey
gold leaf wedding cake disaster
alwasy moisturise bingo wings
how do i put my kingston email
i like my childhood friend who is my hero
inspirational quotes
kate moss house highgate coleridge
salt works liverpool 1871
i don't want to finish reading my book
through on my mind right now
my reflection in swimming in word
motivational quotes about journey in life
fromromewithlove.de
what do people say about working with chickens
taxi drivers don't know the way
first bikram yoga class fainting
i don't want to finish reading my book
skytrain o2 arena
whelk stall
what is the background laughter in parties
drunks refuse to pay for taxi cabs
chairoplane london eye
moss covered stump
upstairs downstairs 2012 and downton abbey
cockle & welks stalls 1950's pics
store with this apron close to pantheon
why do i say things twice
goat and dog train boy
trolleyology
college bucket list
hit by bird droppings
goat met dog
what are renegade squats
which road in highgate does george michael live on
listening the songs reminds me of holiday
shakeing my head when swimming
who said "freedom is the absence"
letters and dolls
neologism of big brother
did it rain on may 7 2012
dedication sample
why do kids say things twice
my feeling about olympics
freedom rules
things to remember when swimming
books about truffles
a memo in a polite way to my lazy dog
kingston uni pgce interview
donald duck girls big tits

Tuesday 23 October 2012

My Crocs and I

At first, when my manager at work said she was going to get us all Crocs to wear, I groaned in horror. Crocs! How ugly! I'd never be able to walk out from behind the counter for fear people would see them and judge me.

As if it weren't bad enough that we were being given Crocs to wear, by the time it got around to ordering mine, there were only yellow and purple left to choose from! To save getting confused, we were each to pick a different colour, so we'd be able to tell which pair were ours. The more ordinary colours had been picked already, the brown, blue, black and grey, which, unless you looked closely, could kind of look like an ordinary pair of shoes. So I had a dull purple or a bright yellow as my options. I picked the purple, it was quite dark and not that noticeable. We ordered them online and then when they arrived, they were obviously an eye-catching bright purple. Obviously. The type of colour which immediately draws your eye.

I was extremely self conscious about wearing them at first. I'd point them out, jokingly, as though I was desperate for people to know that I was aware how idiotic they looked, but they were just my work shoes! Honest! I didn't buy them out of choice! They're just my work shoes! Don't judge me!

Occasionally, I'd put a purple t-shirt on, absent-mindedly and then get to work, change into my Crocs and realise that it looked like I'd organised my outfit that way, to match my Crocs.

Then I started getting casual about them, wearing them home after work, or to the shops. Sometimes I'd go and see a friend straight from work and I'd still have the Crocs on. By the time I realised, I'd just shrug and keep going, hoping that the friendship was strong enough to withstand the extreme ugliness and the general impression they gave, that my feet were ginormous flippers.

Before I knew it, they'd sneaked a place in my line up of shoes and demanded to be considered as the shoe I might choose when I got ready in the morning. Even on days I wasn't working. There they were, the hugest purplest ugliest things I'd ever come across, with big holes in them, which made rain a nightmare, and with a considerable layer of dirt around the toe area that I was too lazy to clean.

And yet.

And yet they are MY Crocs. They are my big ugly purple Crocs.

And I love them.

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Monday 22 October 2012

My first outing after passing my driving test

Passing my driving test was a bit of a task to start with. I had been getting loads of lessons and had a date booked and was as ready as I'd ever be.

My driving instructor and I drove to the test centre, signed in and were told to sit and wait. While we waited, a lady came over and asked to see my certificate to prove I'd passed my theory test. You're not allowed to take your practical test until you've passed your theory test. And you'll never guess what. I didn't have my certificate with me. I had no idea I was supposed to bring it. There were 20 minutes until the test, it would take more than that to rush home, get my certificate and come back.

So I couldn't take the test and went home quite annoyed. It cost quite a lot of money to book a test. I booked another one at the next available date, three months away. I didn't get anymore driving lessons in those three months as they were expensive and I was already ready for the test. I just drove with a qualified driver, every so often, so as not to forget how to do things.

Inevitably, my second test came up, I hadn't been driving enough, I did an awful job and failed it.

I booked myself in for a third time. This time, I got some driving lessons aswell, to keep it up properly. And I took test number three and I passed. Woop woop!

I got home, all excited, and decided to drive to my friend, Ruth's house, by myself, to celebrate passing my test. She only lived a few minutes away so I was there pretty quickly. She lived on a hill so as I found a spot to park in, I needed to be doing a hill start in reverse to get into the space.

I focussed on the car behind and making sure I didn't hit it and I pressed on the gas pedal quite hard.

Up, up, up, gently, don't hit the car, turn in, in, but not too far, don't hit the curb, a bit more gas, up, up, up, don't hit the car....

CRUNCH.

No. I had not hit the car. How stupid do you think I am?!

I had hit the massive great lamppost, which was in front of the car.

So there's a lamppost in front of the car. I've reversed into the lamppost. That's the first thing I have achieved as a fully qualified driver.

I looked around, hoping no-one had seen. My friend, Ruth, was walking toward me. She had been watching me the whole time, admiring her new driving-license-wielding friend, thinking of the adventures we would have, escaping in a car. She had seen the ridiculous avoid-the-car-but-hit-the-lamppost manoeuvre.

We inspected the back and, to be honest, there were quite a few scrapes and scratches already there. So what looked like the one I had probably done just kind of blended in. Kind of.

And that is the first thing I did after passing my driving test. Maybe it's a good job I don't drive anymore...?

Sunday 21 October 2012

In honour of Downstairs Duvet

O, Downstairs Duvet, you warm up my life,
As the winter approaches, you save me from strife.

I sit on the sofa, clutching my book,
But even my eyes are frozen, so I can hardly look.

My little old house has no central heating,
I turn on the fire but the joy is so fleeting.

Shivering, shuddering, a thought strikes my mind,
A duvet for downstairs, that would be so fine!

And now I am no longer sad as I read,
I think about what a nice life I do lead.

A book in one hand and a cup of tea too,
O Downstairs Duvet, I love you.

You cover me, cuddle me, keep me from cold,
I'd ask you to marry me, if I were bold.

And now when I hear the rain falling down,
I grab Downstairs Duvet and wrap it around.

O Downstairs Duvet, you light up my life,
As the winter approaches, you save me from strife.

Saturday 20 October 2012

Danda and the truffle book

Danda has a friend who like truffles. A lot. Danda's friend spends a lot of time thinking about truffles and talking about truffles and experimenting in the kitchen with truffles.

One day Danda decided to get his truffle-loving friend a surprise. He couldn't think what surprise would be best. A jar of truffle honey? A stick of truffle butter? But these were all things that he knew his truffle-loving friend probably already had, or could get quite easily.

He thought and he thought. And then he remembered that his friend loves books and reading. Perfect! He would get a book about truffles. Amazing.

He scoured Amazon for something suitable, coming up with a lot of chocolate recipe books. He cursed the day someone decided to call a ball of chocolate 'a truffle.' Then he came across a few truffle books, of the right type of truffle. Books about the story of the truffle, books about cooking with truffles.... Books, books, books.

And then Danda realised it. He didn't have an Amazon account. His friend had sometimes ordered things using her account, for him. But he couldn't very well ask his friend to order her own surprise.

So he took down some names of truffle books and went into a book shop the next day. They didn't have the one he wanted but said another of their stores had it.

'No problem,' said Danda, to the helpful sales assistant in the bookshop. 'I will go to the shop in Kingston tomorrow, when I get a chance.'

That evening, he saw his truffle-loving friend and she was holding a box with freshly delivered truffle butter in it. She looked very pleased with herself.

'O, you and your truffles,' Danda said affectionately.

'Yeh, they smell amazing,' she said. 'And guess what else? I've just ordered a book about truffles online.'
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'O, Laura!' said Danda, for indeed I am the girl in the story. 'You're so hard to get a surprise for.' And with that, he sunk into silence, to make a new plan.

As yet, there is no new plan. I'm such a surprise-ruiner.

Whoops.

Friday 19 October 2012

The bucket of fat

The other day I was in work. It was quite busy. Not rushed-off-your-feet busy. Just I-need-a-cup-of-tea-now busy. We got the food delivery in and, as usual, we started to unpack some stuff into the display fridge, put some stuff away, etc.

There was a huge bucket and when we opened it to look inside, we saw the slightly cloudy water that the poached chicken has been cooked in. Great, put that in the kitchen and I'll unpack the chicken into tubs, when I get a chance.

Cakes went on stands, cheese went in fridges and salads went in bowls. It was all looking fab and under control. I went to the kitchen and that's when we got loads of orders. There I was, heating, pouring, chopping, plating, and the bucket of chicken stood on the side, in my way, while I struggled to find time to deal with it. On and on it went, every time my hands went to the bucket to unpack the chicken, an order came in.

It was big and in my way but I didn't want to move it out of the way, for fear I'd forget to deal with it.

Finally, I got the lid off. Then about four orders came in. I dealt with them and sent them out and then there I was again, alone with the bucket of chicken, finally. I was going to do this! Nothing could stop me.

Now, I don't know how many of you are frequent poachers of chicken but it's a fabulous way to cook it. It's a lot more moist than roasting or frying. But as the chicken takes on the moisture from the water, so it releases some of its fat. So what you end up with is a pan of beautifully cooked chicken, floating in a sea of slightly discoloured water with fatty blobby bits on the surface. Should this water then cool down a little, the fatty blobby bits merge together to form misshapen white islands bobbing about on the top of the water. It's not pretty, as you can imagine.

So this bucket of chicken had the inevitable floating blobby fat islands on its surface and the water itself was quite cloudy, so that I couldn't even see the chicken in the bottom. It was a huge bucket, which was wierd because they never usually sent this much chicken. They usually sent a far smaller bucket.

Anyway, I got out two tubs to transfer the chicken into. I wrote the date on them, so we'd know when it came in.

I rolled up my sleeve... And plunged my hand into the fatty watery pit, to seek out the chicken from the depths below.

I swished my hand around. And around. I felt right to the bottom, around the edges. I swirled around in the fat-water. Around and around. And I didn't happen upon a single peice of chicken. Not one. Puzzled, I kept swishing my hand around.

And then it dawned on me. They'd obviously made a mistake at the other deli, where they cook the food. They'd sent us this instead of chicken. They'd got mixed up, kept the chicken and sent us the bucket of water they cooked it in, clearly meant for throwing away.

So now, here I am, elbow deep in a bucket of fat, for no reason. A chickenless bucket of fat. With my sleeve up around my arm. The floating fat islands gently colliding with my forearm as I plunge around desperately, looking for poached chicken. Poached chicken which is not in this bucket. This massive bucket of fat.

It was not my finest hour.

Thursday 18 October 2012

Danda and the frittata

"Danda," said I, one day. "I have just discovered frittatas. They are fabulous and so tasty. I like to cook for people. I would like to make you a frittata."

Danda, looking uncertain, asked "Will I like it? What's in it?"

"You will love it," I declared. "I will make an extra tasty one, I promise."

He decided to trust me and I got to work. In went the potatoes, some mushrooms, some ham, a bit of onion and garlic, seasoning. I fried it all for a few minutes then poured whisked egg over the top. I let it cook for a bit before putting the whole thing under the grill to finish.

Ta da! A beautiful frittata. I got plates and cutlery and took it to Danda. The kitchen was cold that day so Danda had decided to eat in the front room.

I put the pan onto the footrest thingy and cut Danda a slice of the frittata. I put it on a plate and presented it to him.

"This looks great. Thanks so much," said Danda, leaning back onto the chair and putting his feet up onto the footrest.....

Frittata on footrest..... Foot on footrest.... Frittata on floor.....

There was a moment of silence as he looked at me in fear. I tried to stifle my laughter so as not to encourage this kicking-food-on-the-floor habit. It didn't work. Hysterics gripped us both as we scooped the sad little frittata back into the pan and tried to decide if we could apply the 3 second rule.

O, Danda......

Wednesday 17 October 2012

The reality (?) of mobile phones

It's my guest blogger's turn to take over today. Enjoy!

 

Last week I went to the supermarket. Nothing strange in that except what should have been a straightforward, weekly event for me turned into a nightmare. How so?

Let’s begin with the car journey: it’s less than 1 mile. There is one set of traffic lights on the route. It is red when I get there. I’m second in the queue. I wait, like everyone else. Light goes amber then green, outside lane moves off, my lane doesn’t. As I look at the driver in front, the person has a mobile phone held to their ear and is obviously not paying attention to the traffic lights. After a couple of seconds I beep my horn and they wake up and start driving. I’m not convinced they finished the call but at least they put the phone down.

Now I’m approaching the supermarket entrance. A lady is walking back and to and side-to-side on the pavement. She is actually shouting and doesn’t see me trying to get past. As she turns round I see she is on the phone. She is having an argument in raised tones. She is telling the person on the other end: “You get out of my house RIGHT NOW!!” and this is followed by words I can only represent by ******* being said many times. She is blocking the pavement and I have to walk into the road to get around her so I can get to the trolley area. That’s two mobile obsessed people and I haven’t even got in the door yet!

I have a list. I grab my trolley and move quickly inside. I know exactly where I’m going and which aisles I need to be in. I speed through the first three aisles grabbing everything I need. I turn the corner into aisle 4 and, as I make my way down to the shelf I need, I see a problem. I can’t get to it. There is a person talking on their mobile phone but holding their trolley at right angles to the shelves so it is actually blocking the aisle. Why do people do that? I can’t get past. I wait a bit but no reaction.

Time for tactic no.2 – crash, apparently accidentally, into said trolley pretending to be looking the other way. Person looks round and moves trolley out of the way. They don’t stop the phone conversation. I carry on. Soon I’m at the last aisle and heading for the freezers as my last stop. I finish there in just a couple of mins with the items on my list going swiftly into the trolley. Time for the checkout. My bags which I’m going to re-use to collect my green points on to the loyalty card are ready, my bank card is ready, money off vouchers are ready. This supermarket has 15 checkouts but on a Monday morning at opening time (8.00am) they have only one or two with staff. Today it’s one but fortunately for me only one person is in the queue. It’s 8.25 and I’m doing well and should make it back home before the roads get clogged with school traffic which they will by about 8.40am. The person in front begins to unload their trolley and then I hear this ringing noise. Yep you’ve guessed it – their mobile phone! Now if I’m emptying my trolley onto a supermarket checkout belt answering the phone is simply a non-starter. I’ll get to the call later. (Just like if I’m talking to someone face-to-face and my phone rings, I don’t answer. That person is who I’m giving my attention to and I would consider it rude of me to just expect them to wait while I answer a call.)

However I’m not this person and they answer the call and then carry on a discussion while trying to put all their stuff onto the belt. Not surprisingly they now start moving more slowly so they can concentrate on what is being said. The fact that there is a person standing behind seems to be of no importance to them. Then they proceed to stack the trolley with the checked items from the cashier one-handed! The conversation goes on. It’s payment time and now out comes the purse, again one-handed, and then much fumbling through to find the right card to pay. Did they apologise for holding me up? What do you think? Oh well. Finally I get out and to the road near my house. I’m just too late to beat the standing traffic. The tailbacks are caused because there are two lollipop ladies, who are of just a few hundred yards apart on this road, who help children to cross safely. Of course it’s not them I’m complaining about. It’s their job to help the kids over the road and if they weren’t there the kids wouldn’t be able to get to the school. So there it is.

I’d been out of the house for less than 1 hour and FOUR yes 4 people had thought their phone calls were more important than letting the world go about its business in an unobstructed way. Let’s be honest – the calls weren’t that important. Not one of them was an emergency call. No-one dropped their bags and ran to the hospital or drove round the next corner on two wheels. Even the lady telling the person to get out of her house stayed where she was. Going shopping shouldn’t be that hard should it? But that day it was.

I’m sure you’ve all got examples of how people get so wrapped up in their phones that they don’t realise what’s going on around them. That’s why there was a question mark behind the word “reality” in the title of today’s post. I really do wonder, when answering their mobiles, if people actually just go into a different world – a mobile world. It’s a world which says, “Look at me, what I’m doing is more important than anything you folks in the real world want to do. You’ll have to wait because I’m on my phone!!” (Maybe for some it’s even a case of “I know it will wind you up if I take this call so I’ll take it in order to wind you up!”)

Most of the time it’s not a problem but there are a number of cases where accidents, sometimes fatal, have been caused by people using mobile phones inappropriately. Honestly would you want to be responsible for something like that. Of course you wouldn’t. And that’s what I tell myself every time the phone rings when I’m driving. Leave it. Get to it later when I stop or pull over if I think it’s something I have to deal with there and then.

I’ve been having a few thoughts in this direction and will run them by you next week. I think I may be onto something.

Tuesday 16 October 2012

Things I will never do

Say 'cap' instead of cappuccino.

Eat celeriac.

Learn how to apply eye liner.

Read a book by Dan Brown.

Wear matching pyjama top and bottoms.

Understand machinery.

Eat ox tongue.

Say 'barth' and 'parth' and 'grarss' instead of bath and path and grass.

Wish there were more adverts on TV.

See a child and wish I had one.

Look back on my law degree with fond memories.

Become a cowboy film fan.

Mistake truffle butter for some kind of cream cheese and spread it on toast (as a friend did recently, which deeply offended me).

Think about Marmite with any level of excitement.

Watch the shopping channel on TV. Not even when they're doing the kitchen appliances show.

Drink tomato juice.

Monday 15 October 2012

Spilling some of my trade secrets

Today, I am taking a big step. I am sharing a closely guarded secret with you all. The recipes for my banana bread and my cranberry, pecans and white chocolate flapjacks. This is not something I share easily but I feel we are at that stage in our relationship now where I can trust you all with it.

These are my most successful recipes in my repertoire and get more requests than the others. So here goes.

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Banana bread
150g butter and 80ml of butter milk OR 150ml double cream
225g sugar (soft brown works best)
2 eggs
4 bananas (it's not an exact science though, it can be as few as 2 or as many as 6)
Vanilla extract
285g plain flour (00 flour will make your bread really soft)
Salt
1.5 tbsp bicarbonate of soda
Drinking chocolate powder

Ok, so I'm setting it down on paper here but it's not something you should feel restricted by. It's all quite flexible.

First, turn the oven to 150 degrees.

If you're using butter, put it in a mixing bowl with sugar and cream it together. If the butter is at room temperature, it will be far easier.

If you are using double cream instead, put it in a mixing bowl and whisk until it is starting to form lumps. This is the point at which it is starting to turn into butter. By staying at this pre-butter stage, your banana bread will take on a totally different texture, much lighter and softer. Add the sugar to this and mix. We're now at the same stage, whether we've used butter or cream.

Next, add the 2 eggs and mix until fully incorporated.

Next put your bananas on top of everything. Take a potato masher and mash the bananas into the mixture. If you prefer to mash the bananas in a separate bowl and add them to your main bowl, you can. But there are more dishes to wash if you do it that way.

If you are using butter instead of double cream, you will need to add your buttermilk here. Add the vanilla extract at this stage as well. I just splash it in. It's probably 1 tbsp. (Making your own vanilla extract will give it a nicer taste. Just stick some vanilla pods in a bottle of vodka and leave it for 3 months. Simple.)

Next add the flour. This is kind of flexible too. I've used every random combination of bits and bobs of flour when I've not had the right one in the cupboard and it always works. Last time I used half 00 flour and half wholemeal and I got really good feedback. The only thing I would say is don't use self raising, as we're going to add bicarb soon.

If you want to sift your flour through a sieve, you can. I've done it sifted and unsifted and I don't think it makes a difference. Plus, there are more things to wash if you sift it.

Add your salt and bicarb. I just usually grab a pinch of flaky salt and grind between my fingers as I sprinkle it in. When adding the chocolate powder, it's what you prefer really. It's not a chocolate flavoured cake. It's just to add a little something in the background. You want a tablespoon full at the most, I think.

Once it's all definitely mixed in, grease a loaf tin and line it with greaseproof paper. The paper's not urgent but if the banana bread decides it wants to stick to the bottom, it will break when you shake it out.

Put the mixture in the tin and put it in the middle of the oven for an hour and a half ish.

Then lick the bowl clean.

Test by putting a knife/skewer into the middle and if it comes out clean, it's done. Don't stick too closely to the time. If you see after an hour, it looks done, do the knife/skewer test. Or you might have to leave it longer. If you make it a few times, you'll learn how it's supposed to look and go by that.

Leave to cool completely before turning out.

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Da dahhh! A banana bread!

Cranberry, pecan and white chocolate flapjacks

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150g butter
125g sugar
2 tbsp golden syrup
275g oats
White chocolate
Cranberries
Pecans

Melt the butter in a saucepan with the sugar and golden syrup. Depending on how you like your flapjacks to be, add more or less than the amount I've stated for the golden syrup. If you like it stickier, use more golden syrup. If you like it crumbly, add a bit less. I tend to add more as it sticks everything together better and cuts into neater pieces.

When melted, take off the heat and add the oats and a few squares of white chocolate. Mix together. Then add the cranberries and pecans. Again, it's about personal preference. Add loads or a few, it's up to you.

Mix well and put the whole mixture into a greased baking tray.

Bake on about 160 degrees for 30-40 minutes, depending on how well done you like your flapjacks.

When you take it out, put it somewhere to cool and grate the rest of your white chocolate over the flapjack. It will melt very quickly. Take a spoon or a palette knife and spread it around evenly. Wait until completely cool before cutting into bars.

Done!

This recipe works with pretty much any flavour combination. You could add different nuts, different fruit, different chocolate. Lightly roasting loads of different nuts and adding them for a plain nutty flapjack is also amazing.

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Ok, people. Go into your kitchens and bring forth cakes and flapjacks fit for royalty! (Obviously crediting me while you're at it.)

And remember, always lick the bowl afterward. And always make sure there is little washing up afterward. You don't have time for washing dishes, you need to be eating your creations.

Sunday 14 October 2012

An inconvenient birthday

About three years ago, I was in my final year at uni and my dissertation was due three days after my birthday. I was planning to let my birthday go by and then celebrate when my dissertation was finished.

I'd had a bit of a bust up with my flatmate, which consisted of her telling me that the flat was too messy and me agreeing but saying I couldn't do anything about it at the time as my dissertation was due. I was therefore holed up in the library the majority of the time, trying to avoid more confrontation.

I had been to America the previous month, doing research for my dissertation, so it was really important to me that I did well. I hadn't eaten or slept properly in days. Or changed my clothes. I just needed to get it done.

In the midst of all this, a friend said to me, "O, let's go out for dinner for your birthday."

I was like, how oblivious can you be? I'm clearly way too busy right now. Just hold off until the weekend and then I'll be free.

In the nicest possible way, I kind of said, "I'd prefer not to."

But he was insistent. "Yeh, let's go for dinner for your birthday." Another friend was there, looking at me expectantly.

I then kind of tried to say in a nice way, "Ok, but it needs to be really close by so that I can come straight back to the library."

But no! He wanted to half way across London to Paddington. What. On. Earth! This is ridiculous. And really annoying. Why would you go all across London when there's plenty of places for dinner near uni and you know I'm busy.

"It's a great little place which does Lebanese food."

I'm sorry, pardon? Lebanese food? You've brought me all the way across London to a random little restaurant, right in the middle of working on my dissertation and not being in a good mood after having a bit of an argument with my flatmate.... For Lebanese food. I mean there's nothing wrong with Lebanese food, its nice, but it's not like I'm a well known Lebanese food lover. Italian, yes. French, ok. Thai, I'm there. But never in a million years would I choose a Lebanese restaurant myself.

"Just go into the pub next door for a quick drink while I make sure everything's ready in there."

What. On. Earth. I need to eat and leave ASAP. I don't need to be hanging around 'having a drink'. I was on the verge of saying, "Thanks for the effort and everything but I'm going to go now. I'm trying not to offend you because I see that you've made loads of effort but I have to do my dissertation."

Anyway, I go into this pub with my other friend, while the organising friend goes to the restaurant. We go in and there's a bar upstairs that I'm told to go to as it's quieter.

Up the stairs I go, into the little bar and....

"SURPRISE!" shout a load of my friends. I look into the room, see everyone looking at me and walk off.....

Not the traditional response, I realise. But really now... A party all the way across London, three days before I'm due to hand in my dissertation, my final peice of work for my degree, the culmination of three years of hard work. Really?

I sat in the toilet for about 20 minutes assessing the situation while another friend convinced me it would be fine. Eventually I chilled out a bit and rejoined the party. And it was lovely. Of course it was lovely. It was fabulous to see everyone in the same place. And I had a great time after managing to force myself to forget about the deadline. But I'm not going to lie, it was extremely badly timed.

The same friend who organised it also got me a nice dress (to wear to the party, but when he tried to convince me to wear it, I gave him a look that said I was not pleased). A few weeks later, I decided to wear the dress somewhere. I put it on and it was faaaaar too big. He had bought me a dress two sizes up from what I wear. TWO sizes up! How can you guess a dress size which takes someone from an average size to a definitely quite large size?

You know sometimes when you're like 'Are you EVER paying attention when I speak or do anything?' That was how this incident felt.

How does a person sitting in a library day in day out for about two weeks, three days away from handing in a peice of work which really matters to her, make you think, o I'll throw a surprise party right before her hand in date?

And that is my one and only experience of surprise parties! No-one else has thrown one for me since. I think I know why...

Saturday 13 October 2012

The annoying airport saga

Once upon a time, a good friend said to me, "Can you meet me from the airport when I get back from my holiday?" He had lots of bags and was unfamiliar with London so I said, sure I'd meet him, and I booked the morning off work.

I had met him from flights a few times before and he had always come into Terminal 2 at Heathrow. "So," said I, "will you be at the same terminal as last time?"

"Yes," said my friend.

And so the day arrives. I head to Heathrow airport. I'm early, so as I'm lingering around waiting, there's a Marks and Spencer's right next to me, with a massive flower display. I think it will be nice if I buy a bunch. People are always meeting other people off flights with bunches of flowers, aren't they? So I buy them, squeeze back to my place at the railing and wait. And wait. And wait.

It's been an hour since his landing time. Maybe he's still getting baggage and going through passport control etc. I check the Arrivals board but can't see anything which has arrived from Mexico, where he's been.

An hour and a half. I try calling. His phone's off.

Two hours. I've got to be at work at 4pm and by this time, it's about 2pm. It takes an hour to get to work. Time is getting pretty tight. Still nothing from Mexico on the Arrivals board.

Two and a half hours. I call. And call again. And again. And finally it starts to ring. A voice on the end of the line.

"Hi, what's happened? Are you ok?"

"Yeh, the flight was delayed a bit."

"Which terminal are you in?"

"I guess two. I usually come into that one."

"But there's nothing on the arrivals board. Did you stop anywhere to change flights?"

"No, I came direct."

"You must be in a different terminal then. Is there anyone else around you? Ask them what terminal you've come into."

I'm already heading to the underground station downstairs, which shuttles you around to the different terminals.

I hear him asking another person what terminal they're in. Then he reports the answer back to me.

"I'm in the North terminal."

Has anyone spotted a problem? I'm in terminal TWO. He's in the NORTH terminal. Something doesn't quite fit here.

"Check your flight ticket." I tell him. "What does it say for your destination?"

"Why, what's up? It says London GTW."

.......Yes, yes it does. And there is no way in hell that GTW means Heathrow, you nonce. It means Gatwick!

For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of London, Heathrow is out to the West somewhere. And Gatwick is south. Very far south. And London is big. And the journey between those two airports is quite significant. And I had to be in work in an hour and a half.

Eventually, after working out a complicated looking train map, I worked out that we could both get fast trains to Clapham and meet there.

I and my flowers hurried along to the underground, which I had to get to another terminal before I could get onto the fast train. The next fast train was going in about fifteen minutes. Already I'd consumed half an hour just getting on the train to Clapham. I got there quite quickly and his train took another twenty minutes. So now I'm about fifteen minutes away from needing to start work. My flowers look kinda sad now as I've been crashing about airports and trains and they have taken the brunt of it.

He arrives finally, as I'm hanging about aimlessly in the long corridor which joins all the platforms, swinging the flowers around and debating whether to chuck them as they're looking a bit old.

"Boo!" he says, when he finds me, broad grin on his face.

"Hey," I say, offering the sad looking bunch of flowers.

He loves them anyway and now, he's staying in South West London with another friend and could I help him get there and I'm welcome to come to dinner.

I smile, offer him brief instructions then hurry off to work, for which I am late. He wanders off, like it's no big deal, with all his stuff, gets lost and ends up in the wrong area of London, where he has another friend, who he stays with instead. Who knows what happened to the dinner that was being made for him.

Now I'm sometimes unorganised but at least I know the basics. Where and when I'm landing is not that difficult. Just remember it. I'm not asking a lot! If I'm going to meet you at the airport, just bloody tell me the right airport!

That was annoying.

Friday 12 October 2012

Another Italian feast

Yesterday, two of my favourite friends came over. One had just handed in two peices of work, which signalled the end of her dissertation. The other is half Italian. I therefore went crazy on the organising front and decided to make a feast of epic proportions, much like the last time someone came for dinner.

This time though, I was equipped with truffle oil...! The night before, I had prepared the delicate carta di musica - music paper - and made the pesto. Where last time I went for a rocket and walnut pesto, this time I was without food processor (it broke when I used it to whizz almonds for cantuccini) so I made the simpler traditional basil and pine nut pesto as it's easier to bash together in a pestle and mortar. I lightly toasted the pine nuts first and it gave them a really creamy texture.

Then the morning of the big feast, I made walnut brittle, which I then bashed into breadcrumb-size peices and added to a delicate mixture of whipped cream, whipped egg white and whipped yolk and sugar. I froze the whole thing to make semifreddo, which means half-cold in Italian. It basically comes out like an ice cream but is different, somehow.

I also whisked a few eggs with sugar, 00 flour, crushed nuts and I forget what else, to make cantuccini. I fridged the whole thing first, to let it chill and set a little, to make the baking process easier later.

Then I went bread crazy for a bit, making my pizza dough and leaving it to rise and then tackling the grissini. I had just bought them at the shop last time and felt a bit like I'd let myself down. So this time, I made them from scratch. I melted a bit of butter in a pan then added milk. In a bowl, I put 00 flour, dried yeast, salt and a handful of parmesan. I added the butter and milk to this, kneaded it for a while, then left it in a warm place to rise. Although I was supposed to be using strong white flour, I couldn't find any in my cupboard. So I used 00 flour and wholemeal flour mixed together and hoped it would be fine.

It was fine! Surprisingly. And I even thought it looked a bit more interesting than if I'd used totally white flour. Check them out.

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I love the uneven nature of the sticks, how some are a bit short and stubby and others are quite long and thin and smooth all around. They also got a great reaction from my guests, one of whom said it was their favourite thing out of everything we ate.

After making these, I rolled my pizza dough into twelve balls (used one to make myself a pizza for lunch, just to test it, you understand), put them on a tray covered in a damp towel and fridged until needed.

Finally, after a whole day of prep, I was ready for guests. And here it is in all its glory. The antipasti...

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Prosciutto, figs and mint.

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From the back, you can see truffle butter, pesto (in the glass), grilled aubergines with tomato sauce, mozzarella and basil (at the front) carta di musica (to the left) and in the centre, the homemade grissini wrapped in salami milano and pickled chicory. The little purple thing off to the right contains truffle oil and balsamic vinegar.

There was much dipping of grissini into truffle butter and eyes lighting up. The pesto was a firm favourite with my half Italian friend, who kept an eagle eye on it whenever anyone else took a slightly-too-large scoop on their breadstick.

We also had tomato, mozzarella, basil sticks as well but herein lies the problem with mozzarella. The better quality you use, the higher water content it has. Which means that it gets all over you when you're touching it and all over whatever you're trying to do with it. So my basil leaves and tomato wedges were covered in mozzarella water, making them unpretty for photographs. But they were there, honest.

Next up was the mains, for which I went traditional Italian...

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With a courgette, rocket and basil salad with a lemony-parmesany dressing...

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My half-Italian friend polished most of this off single-handedly.

For the pizzas, I just rolled them fairly small and topped them with whatever I felt like. Chicken, fennel, white asparagus, romano peppers, truffle oil, proscuitto, courgette, mushrooms, red onion, mozzarella, chilli flakes. And so we ate. And we ate. And we ate some more. The mains and the antipasti were all lingering around in front of us and we just kept nibbling. A mouthful of pizza. A bit of grissini dipped in truffle oil. A tomato, mozzarella stack. It just went on. And on. And on.

We waited maybe five minutes before I discreetly cleared the plates and got bowls out for everyone. Loud declarations of "O, I can't eat dessert yet, no way!" were made.

"Don't worry," I said, calming their fears. "I'm just putting the bowls out. And the semifreddo needs to be out of the freezer to soften up for a bit."

But, of course, I set up all the stuff on the table and our stomachs forgot about how full they were and we got started.

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Ok, from left to right. Slow-baked figs, then cantuccini. In front of the cantuccini is a little dish of walnut brittle, a jar of honey, then to the right is the walnut semifreddo. The order of things for the semifreddo is as follows - scoop some semifreddo out and put it in your bowl, drizzle with honey, top with walnut brittle. Add into the equation a few figs and try using the light  crumbly cantuccini to transport the last few bits of ice cream to your mouth and suddenly, you're not full anymore. You're back in the game. You're ready for action! More semifreddo! More figs! More honey!

We sat, shell shocked and taken aback, viewing our destruction before leaving the scene of the crime to go and watch a program about plane crashes (don't ask, I wasn't in charge of the dinker).

And now I have leftovers for at least the next week. Well, I say 'the next week'.... They'll last me a day or two....

Thursday 11 October 2012

Danda and the muffins

I used to make a lot of muffins. I still make muffins but not so many. My most successful muffin flavour was vanilla, goji berry and poppy seed. I had just discovered this flavour and was trial running it then offering/forcing it on friends to see what people thought of it.

One batch, slaved over with great love and dedication, I presented to Danda for tasting by his expert taste buds.

"Danda," I declared, gently passing the small foil parcel containing three muffins. "These muffins have been made with love and homemade vanilla extract. I have been in the kitchen for hours producing this beautiful batch of muffins, especially for you. They are very good for you as they contain goji berries, a superfood, that I travelled to the foothills of the Himalayas to pluck at the breaking of dawn. To put them in these muffins, just for you. The poppy seeds I collected from poppies that I planted last year and grew, just so I could make these muffins for you. Do you like them, Danda? Do you?"

"O, thanks," Danda said, very impressed by my dedication. "I'll have one for breakfast. I'm really looking forward to it."

I was pleased by his enthusiasm, much better than was showed in The Blackberry Incident.

The next day, around mid-morning, I called Danda on the phone.

"Danda, what of the beauty of the muffins? Did it inspire you to poetry? Or to works of great philosophy, perhaps?"

"O... Erm.... I didn't have one. I couldn't find them this morning."

"Danda. Did you lose my muffins?"

"I'm not sure. They must be somewhere."

"Danda, this is an emergency. We must go and find them immediately."

We scoured the kitchen, the cupboards, everywhere. I even checked the bin, just in case. The bin was empty. Totally empty.

Hmm. Why would this be? Ah. It was Bin Day. The bins had been put out. And they had already been collected.

"Danda.... Did you do that thing where you remember it's Bin Day and throw everything in the bin in a kind of Bin-Day-Panic?"

Silence.......

Wednesday 10 October 2012

Rain 2

It's Wednesday again and time for my guest blogger to take over. Enjoy.

 

Last week’s subject got me thinking. As well as the weather aspect of rain it crops up in a lot of songs. I thought I’d look at just a few.

Remember the Travis song, Why Does It Always Rain On Me? (1999). Apparently, at the exact moment when they played the song, at Glastonbury in 1999, the weather duly obliged. There’s that other classic by B.J. Thomas, Raindrops keep falling on my head (1970). Rain is a mood-altering phenomenon: it can give us a down when we’re being soaked but give us a lift when we see those dark clouds disappearing and best of all when we see it stopping. Remember the Lighthouse Family and the lines from their song Lifted: “I wouldn’t say I’m mad about the rain, But we’ll get through it anyway.” One thing’s for sure as BJT sang, we’ll never stop the rain by complaining; so don’t - move on, it will stop (eventually)!

Garbage (the group) had a song called I’m only happy when it rains, in 1995, which seems to be a similar sentiment to Gene Kelly, (remember last week’s post).
Remember the opening bars of The Doors’ song, Riders on the Storm? Must be one of the most atmospheric sounds of rain & thunder on record. Only managed to reach No.22 in Britain even with two re-issues. (However, here’s a good one - If you watch this vid of the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS-af9Q-zvQ on Youtube, at about 2m 46s, you will see Jim Morrison lighting a cigarette not far from the petrol pump in a garage where he’s stopped to get fuel. Those were the days, eh? Risk of explosion – who me? Where?)

I don’t know much about the weather in the USA apart from the stuff that makes the news over here. In 1972, when Rapid City (South Dakota) lost 238 inhabitants due to flooding lasting 2 days, Albert Hammond was singing about people saying, It never rains in Southern California but then says “Girl don’t they warn ya - it pours, man it pours”. Any readers from California tell me which is right?

As an aside, did you know that hurricanes don’t actually get named. Yes, I know, you can think of plenty but did you realise how they originate. A tropical storm is named when it reaches a sustained speed of 39mph; if that storm then reaches a sustained speed of 74mph it becomes a hurricane and keeps the name it was given as a storm. Also did you know that the names for Tropical Storms follow a prescribed pattern: the first storm of any year gets a name beginning with “A”, the second a name beginning with “B” and so on. (So in 2012 they went like this: Alberto, then Beryl, Chris, Debby etc). Q, U, X, Y and Z are not used.

Furthermore, if the year is an even number, men’s names are used for the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th etc storms; if the year is odd women’s names are used for the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th etc storms. The names are pre-determined so I can tell you that, if there are 21 storms in 2012 that reach hurricane force, no.21 will be called Hurricane William. I can also tell you that the second storm (poss hurricane) in 2016 will be called Bonnie and the 11th will be Karl. (The full table, which goes to 2017, can be found at http://geology.com/hurricanes/hurricane-names.shtml).

Ok, so back to the rain. Are you a bit like the Carpenters – you know, Rainy days and Mondays always get you down? If you’ve never listened to The Cascades’ song Rhythm of the Rain, watch (listen actually, as it’s it’s only a still pic) this one http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=l1PJ9mF2H2Q. (A brief count of the different uploads of just this one Cascades song by various sources comes to about 3.5 million views).

Of course you’re probably wondering about the wettest place on Earth: where & how much, obviously?

Here’s the wettest place in Britain: Dalness in Scotland
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Looks beautiful doesn’t it? It gets 130 ins (3.3 metres) of rain per year. That means an average of nearly 11 ins per month.

In second place is Seathwaite in the Lake District which is the wettest place in England and here it is.
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Seathwaite (in Borrowdale) gets 124 ins of rain per year.

Both of these pale into insignificance when we look at the wettest places in the world. The top two are in India and get 467 ins (11871mm) & 463 ins (11777mm) – that’s more than 1 in (25.4mm) per day! For the UK 124 ins & 130 ins are enough to be going on with. Definitely worth keeping an umbrella with you I’d say.

What a good job this lady took her umbrella with her!! Just think what might have happened if she’d forgotten it.
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And this chap too. I’d like to see him do a Gene Kelly (see last week’s post):

So please, if you think it might rain don’t forget that umbrella!

A novel written in 1830 by Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873) called Paul Clifford begins with these very famous lines:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

The novelist’s name has been immortalised in the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. The English Dept of San Jose University (California, you remember where Albert Hammond sang that it never rained) sponsor it and entrants have to compose the opening sentence to “the worst of all possible novels”.

This list has done the rounds a bit so you may have come across some of them before but here are the 10 entries starting at no.10 and working up to the winner (of 2010 possibly):

10. "As a scientist, Throckmorton knew that if he were ever to break wind in the echo chamber, he would never hear the end of it."

9. "Just beyond the Narrows, the river widens."

 

8. "With a curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, a tanned, unblemished oval face framed with lustrous thick brown hair, deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, Marilee had a beauty that defied description."

 

7. "Andre, a simple peasant, had only one thing on his mind as he crept along the East wall: 'Andre creep.  Andre creep.  Andre creep.'"

 

6. "Stanislaus Smedley, a man always on the cutting edge of narcissism, was about to give his body and soul to a back alley sex-change surgeon to become the woman he loved."

 

5. "Although Sarah had an abnormal fear of mice, it did not keep her from eeking out a living at a local pet store."

 

4. "Stanley looked quite bored and somewhat detached, but then penguins often do."

 

3. "Like an overripe beefsteak tomato rimmed with cottage cheese, the corpulent remains of Santa Claus lay dead on the hotel floor."

 

2. "Mike Hardware was the kind of private eye who didn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'; a man who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death-- in short, a moron with suicidal tendencies."

 

And the winner is. . .

 

1. "The sun oozed over the horizon, shoved aside darkness, crept along the greensward, and, with sickly fingers, pushed through the castle window, revealing the pillaged princess, hand at throat, crown asunder, gaping in frenzied horror at the sated, sodden amphibian lying beside her, disbelieving the magnitude of the frog's deception, screaming madly, 'You lied!'"

I like no.9 for its simplicity (and of course no.1) but see what you think.
I couldn’t finish without quoting Walter Sichel (1855-1933):

“The rain, it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella:
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just’s umbrella.”

(He is of course putting his own comedic spin on the last part of the verse from the Gospel of Matthew Ch 5 verse 45 which has the words: “For He (God) makes His (God’s) sun rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (I’ve added words in brackets for explanation purposes).

And that’s it for our second look at rain.

Hope I’ve whet your appetite (see what I did there?) for some further research.

Tuesday 9 October 2012

Danda and the blackberry

This is a story. A story that I am calling Danda And The Blackberry. It contains adventure, daring, far away lands and valiant mission.

One day, a few months ago, I was out walking. I was listening to Vanessa Paradis' ridiculous but catchy hit, Joe Le Taxi as I roved. I was pottering up and down hills and following the river through London and having a lovely time. The summer was at that lovely not-too-hot, just-a-slight-breeze stage. The leaves on the trees were green and I stopped often to photograph the beautiful flowers.

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I was having a lovely time. That's when I saw it. The single ripe blackberry on the blackberry bush...

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Ah! I thought. Look what the summer day hath delivered unto me. I shall pick this single ripe blackberry and present it as a gift to somebody.

But to whom should I give this beautiful gift of the summer's first blackberry? Hmmm.

And that's when I thought, I shall give it to Danda. Because he is a taxi driver, he is quite often on the move and I thought he might be in the area. I gave him a quick call and he was nearby but he was taking someone to the top of the hill that I was at the bottom of. So, thought I, I shall race to the top of the hill and hopefully see him there.

Off I sped, bearing the summer's first blackberry aloft. It was quite a long walk and really quite steep but I was on a Blackberry Mission and determined. As Danda drove up the hill, I walked as quickly as my legs would take me. He was held at a red light for ten seconds or so. This gave me the edge. Holding the blackberry gently, I power-walked through fields and past trees. I was determined. Danda's taxi was approaching the top of the hill just as I hurried to the end of the path and out onto the pavement.

It was like someone had organised us, like chess peices, to collide at exactly the right moment. We reached the bend in the road at the same time and waved. Danda drove a little further down the road to drop the person in his taxi off while I stood panting a little and trying to regain my composure.

A minute or two later, Danda was back. He pulled over and I climbed in the back.

"Danda!" I declared with great aplomb, "I have brought you this blackberry from the Alaskan wilds, from whence I have come after my long exploration there." (Not really, I had just been wandering around aimlessly by the Thames but that's beside the point. Stick with me on this one.) "I have brought this, the first blackberry of the summer, to you, as it reminds me of your summery disposition and your great love of blackberries." (He once said he'd had an apple and blackberry crumble which was tasty.)

He looked a little uncertain about the grandness with which I presented the blackberry to him but nevertheless, he took it, popped it in his mouth and ate it.

I waited, with baited breath for his verdict.

Silence.

"Danda. What of the beauty of the blackberry? Do you approve of it?"

"Mmm...." He said, nonchalantly. "It's a bit sharp...."

Silence.

"Do you want a lift anywhere?"

Monday 8 October 2012

Upstairs or Downstairs: A Dowton Dilemma

So last night, as I was watching Downton Abbey, I was thinking about where I'd most like to be in the house. Not forever, just for a short stay to hang out.

Upstairs would be fun cause you could just hang out doing not much but you would have to deal with Soppy Edith. I was slightly impressed with her new direction in last night's episode but still, she was an idiot in the first series, which put me firmly in Camp Mary in the Mary-Edith face off. So Edith gets no sympathy from me. And if you lived upstairs, you'd have to hang around and smile nicely at her.

You would get to hang out with Cousin Violet though, who should write a book of wisdom. One of her recent quotes always makes me laugh. The others are looking at the massively overdressed table before the guests arrive and going, oo is it too much, have we gone over the top? And Cousin Violet just glances over, looks pleased and says, "My dear, nothing impresses like excess."

You'd get to hang out with Mary and Matthew, who I was really rooting for the whole first two series. Then they finally got together and it was very exciting but the excitement needs to come from somewhere else now. I think Matthew is fun and he'd be good company. I'm still working out whether I just really love Mary's dresses or whether I'd like to be friends with her or whether I'm a little bit scared of her.

I like Lord Grantham too. He seems wise. And Sybil's nice, although I do not like Sybil's new haircut.

After a while though, you'd want something to do. That's the problem with Upstairs. You'd be much frowned upon, I think, if you pottered off for a swim or a bike ride. I think you wouldn't be allowed to, Lord Grantham would look deeply disappointed, as he did when Sybil married Tom.

Downstairs though, you'd want to go for a bike ride or a swim but you probably wouldn't have any time. But a lot of the gossip is from Downstairs. I love how Carson is very proper and slightly gruff, to the extent he'll tell the members of Upstairs off if he needs to. And he totally fancies Miss Hughes.

There's the Anna and Mr Bates excitement which kept things going a bit in the other series. But now Mr Bates is incarcerated, the excitement factor has been reduced somewhat.

Thomas The Meanie is an exciting character because I'm constantly waiting for his demise. I can just feel it's going to come sometime soon.

There's always something brewing with Daisy as well. She works in the kitchen, preparing the food, so obviously I feel an affinity with her. That's the thing about being downstairs as well. I'd get to be around the food and cook.

It's tough. It's a tough decision. Upstairs.... Downstairs.... I guess in terms of cooking, which is high on my priorities list, I'd have to be downstairs because there's no kitchen upstairs. Do you think Lord Grantham would allow me to have a little kitchen upstairs? I think he'd say it's not proper.

Maybe I'd go downstairs. I'm someone who likes to have stuff to do so Downstairs would be busier. Do you think they would have any truffles for me to cook with? But actually, when you're Upstairs, you can take holidays and stuff. I like holidays. Hmm.... I'm now sure now....

Sunday 7 October 2012

Songs that remind me of stuff 2

Be Prepared from the Lion King soundtrack
My friend, Fiona, and I were travelling around Namibia in an old battered truck which was pretty low on gadgets. It didn't have air con, a radio or even a tape deck. We'd get to our destination and peel ourselves off the seat, sweaty and disgusting and hope no-one noticed as we shuffled into the reception of wherever we'd stopped over. Due to the lack of music, we spent hours singing to each other. We returned to the Lion King soundtrack again and again. Be Prepared was a firm favourite and got an airing at least five times every day.

I Just Can't Wait To Be King from the Lion King soundtrack
Lion King soundtrack again but a different situation. I'm in the last year of school and I've got a theatre studies class. We're all sitting waiting for the teacher and somehow... A frenzy takes hold of us. A few girls start singing I Just Can't Wait To Be King. A few more join in. Soon we're all singing. Then we're bordering on shouting. We've started bashing on the tasked and our chairs in time to the tune. "O, I JUST CAAAAN'T WAIT!......"

The door opens. Our teacher is standing there. We stop, mid-desk-whack, and wonder if there's any chance at all in the entire world, that she didn't hear us.... "What on earth is going on? I could hear you all the way down the corridor!"

We had nothing to offer in our defence. We looked into our laps, 18 year old girls having been caught acting like 8 year olds. The lesson got underway but we were all pretty red faced for the entire time.

I popped in to see this teacher a few years ago when I was in Liverpool and we laughed about this day. I still felt kind of embarrassed though.

Jenny From The Block by Jennifer Lopez
Another secondary school story. I had a friend called Cilla who used to 'perform' this song every breaktime. She had slightly adjusted the words though. It was hilarious. J.Lo's version goes:
"I used to have a little, now I have a lot.
No matter where I go, I know where I came from.
Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got.
I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block."

Cilla's version went:
"Used to have a little, now I still have a little.
No matter where I go, I'm still where I came from.
Don't be fooled by the rocks I haven't got.
I'm still. I'm still Cilla from the block."

Mr Cellophane from the Chicago soundtrack
This reminds me of walking through a park in London, I think Hyde Park, but I didn't know London at the time so I'm not sure. I had met all the people who were going with the same gap year organisation as me and we were all leaving for our adventures in about a month. We met in London for some fun before leaving and two of my favourite friends and I were walking together and singing this song. I hasn't seen Chicago so I didn't know it but I just kind of mumbled along with them while they sang. I thought they were best people I had ever known.

Saturday 6 October 2012

The first boy I kissed

Some friends and I used go to a Youth Club every Thursday night. There were three boys there; Tom, Tom and John, who we were all in various stages of having crushes on. We were twelve years old and it was all very exciting.

Then some new boys came to Youth Club, Michael and Oliver. I liked Michael and my friend liked Oliver. Something happened one week when he was coming to Youth Club, he got into a fight or someone beat him up or something. He was an easy target as he was really very short. So he wasn't at Youth Club that week. I missed him and got all Jane Eyre about it and realised I really really liked him.

There was one major problem though. He was in the year below. O. My. Goodness. Liking a year seven boy when you're a year eight girl is sooooo not the done thing. The girls in school said I'd get called a Cradle Snatcher. I got even more Jane Eyre about it and promised myself this wouldn't keep us apart! (Yes, we were 11 and 12 years old... What of it?)

There was lots of chatting and what I perceived at the time to be 'flirting' but nothing much else. I mean, past that, what is it ever at age 12?

Until there was a school disco. As I went to a girls' school, the discos would be together with one of the boys' schools. It just so happened that Michael went to the boys' school that we were having the disco with that time.

My friend, the one who liked Michael's friend, and I were walking to class that day, excited for the disco, declaring loudly about how 'I never thought I'd like a year seven boy,' and realised all the classes had already started and were sitting in silence and a lot of them had their doors open into the corridor. God knows what they must have thought of our inane chat about year seven boys, like we were such grown ups and year sevens are really little.

Anyway, the night of the disco and there we were, Michael and I, holding plastic bottles of Panda Pops in illunimous colours, bobbing about unrhymically a little bit near each other. At one stage, we took it further by putting our fingertips gingerly on each others' shoulders and stepping from side to side in time.

And therein lay the problem. I was taller than him to start with and I had put high heels on for the evening. They weren't mega high but enough to make a difference.

A bit later we were standing separately, each with our gang of friends and there was a flurry of messengers back and forth. This was how things worked at discos.

You saw a boy you liked the look of. You asked your friend to ask him if he wanted to dance. There was some running back and forth until it was eventually decided. You'd linger around until a new song started or until he'd finished his dance with another girl and then you'd walk over, each raise your hands, the girl tended to put her hands on his shoulders and he would put his hands on her waist, all done from afar, mind you. And you would step or sway from side to side for a few minutes then separate and scurry back to your friends. It was the height of excitement for a twelve year old.

If you had decided you wanted to kiss a boy, the same system of messengers ran back and forth to establish a yes or a no and then you approached each other, awkwardly snogged a bit while everyone gawped, then maybe had a little hugging dance afterward, then parted and ran off to tell your friends about it.

Michael and I had decided it was time for the next stage. His friend approached me and asked if I wanted to kiss Michael. I, the classy girl that I am, said alright, but as the height difference would make it awkward, I had spotted some chairs by the wall so we'd have to perch there to even out the height difference. And so we did. We perched, guffawing a little and waiting for the other to start the process. We then kissed a little bit, parted, smiled, unsure of what to say and then stood and each walked off to our friends.

And that was it really. The romance ended pretty shortly after that. I think I'd decided a relationship that consisted of sitting down kissing was a bit too high maintenance for me. I was off to find a boy I could kiss while standing up!

Friday 5 October 2012

Parcels, portals and toilet flush buttons

I know, I know. It's been a while since I reported back on the latest Chat magazine. Well, here it is. You know I never let you go too long without doing one.

First up, there's the photos page. Well, actually, before that there's a real life story which has a shock factor of 10! That's right! A ten. Very rarely will you get tens. Usually they do a 9.8 or something like that. Not usually a ten. So you know that's big stuff.

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Now to the photos page. There's a photo of two pregnant women in the same top, the caption basically says, here's us in the same top. Great. Another photo is a lady reading Fifty Shades of Grey. And again, that's pretty much it. What a fascinating photo, thanks for sharing.

The tips page is quite good today. The best one is probably the one which says that if you have a fancy perfume bottle lid, don't throw it away when you've finished the perfume, attach it to the toilet flush button....! This doesn't make sense on so many levels. Let me show you.

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So on the before pic, you can see that it's one of those push-in type things. There's nothing sticking out from it. So what did she 'attach' the perfume lid to. And also, all she's really done, I think, is cover up the toilet flush button. Because now you can't press it, because there's a big flowery thing attached to it.

The letters page is pretty good this week. There's a picture of a baby with a shocked look on its face. There's nothing wrong with the photo. It's just that that's all it is. And that's the photo of the week....

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They must not be getting a lot of entries to this photo of the week competition....

Then there's a bolognese sauce from a jar competition thing. They review three and tell you their favourite, which is the Sacla Dallaglio bolognese sauce. God forbid, we might suggest one makes their dinner themselves... No! Food from a jar! That's the way forward!

Then there's the obligatory I-used-to-be-fat-then-I-lost-weight story. Then an I-met-a-man-on-the-internet-now-we're-getting-but-we've-never-met story.

Then comes the good section. The psychic section. The first story in this section is about a woman who moved into a haunted house. The proof that it was haunted? Her daughter got locked in the bathroom one day. Obviously a ghost. Obviously. No question about it.

She realised what was going on, an evil portal. Of course. So she decides to close it. You know, as one does. She gathered her archangels around her, are you ready for the good bit? Her archangels... Gabriel..... Michael.... Raphael... And METATRON! Yes. Really. Metatron. Her archangel, Metatron. I'm glad he was there for her. Phew!

Then we have the Lucky Key. This is always amazing. I touch it and good things will happen apparently. To legitimise this Lucky Key thing, there are little stories from people who touched the key and great things happened to them. Now I'm not certain what's going on here. Have they touched the key and immediately something great happens. Or do they touch it on Thursday and by Sunday, they've had a bit of luck? Because I don't think you can really say it's the key then, can you?

When I touched the key this morning, within five minutes I got a little note through the door from the post man saying I needed to go and pick something up from the post office because it had been posted without the proper amount of stamps on it. So I need to give them £1.50 for the postage if I want my parcel.

Is that lucky? Really? Should I tell Chat about it and see if they print my story in next week's magazine? Maybe I will. Watch this space to see if I get printed! It will say:

Laura from London got a note from the postman saying she needed to pay £1.50 to pick up her parcel, all thanks to the Lucky Key!