I have been right pushed busy-wise today. Which makes a change because my chief activity for the past fortnight has been lying in bed till midday reading and mooning before finally dragging my carcus out of me scratcher and getting a taxi to Jacs because I'm too much of a lazy biffer to walk that half mile max. Then I will consume soup and cake before hauling myself the Heir and Spare into FICS 'to do some work' while they go swimming. Work, it would appear, largely comprises of cutting and sticking classroom displays and dreaming up vastly complicated schemes of work, writing them in pencil on the back of West Store receipts and then chucking them in the bin as unworkable fantasy.
This is the Curse of The Profession. Whenever I tell people I am a teacher they have three instantaneous reactions.
1. 'Primary? WHAT SECONDARY! Are you quite mad? Ruddy kids nowadays and their foul-mouthed disrespectful, hoodie weraing looting ways, blah blah'.
2.Really? Do they allow certifiable nutters to teach then?
3. You jammy git - 12 weeks holiday, I work for a living, blah!'
Now come the middle of July, there is nothing more desirous than a long six weeks yawning ahead of wild inactivity before you have to get up and get a grip on that marking, but by late August all pedagogues go slightly psychotic. Teachers have an unusual afinity for strong drink but by the end of the summer, the wasailing can reach epic proportians of self-abasement. I well remember my ex and much missed Guv wandering it to the September pre-term inset muttering 'Ye Gods! last night I drank so much value cider I began to hallucinate'. Whilst his experience might be extreme it is not entirely out of the ordinary.
Teaching is a full on sort of gig and weeks of doing not very much eventually begin to mess you up. You long to return to the Chalk Face, you dream of Quality Teaching and Learning experiences, think fondly of that minx in year 11 with the knuckle duster and ASBO, hope this is the year when you can prove your worth to a cross-eyes OFSTED imspector with vengence on their mind....
By the second week of September, you realise this was troubling and unreasonable fantasy and you do the marking that you have been putting off since June with a keen eye on the calender counting down the days till October half term.
Thus it has come to pass that I am, despite an exciting move of 8000 miles, in late summer limbo. This means that I am cursed by bad dreams and nightmares. I blame all these odd books I am reading about DEATH ON EVEREST and not being used to Exportation Red wine ( 5 Bottles for £10.00 down the West Store - Bargain!). Now I don't really mind the odd nightmare. Back in me RADA days I used to encourage them actively by eating three battered cod roe and several pickled onions on the way home from the theatre. Never failed - there are dreams that I had then that I am still in therapy for.
But 7 nights in a row seems a bit much. This morning I woke up at 8am wrapped up in the duvet like some kind of massive slug. Rictus grin and wild hair greeted me as I looked in the mirror and there were discernable teeth marks on the Kindle.... I had awoken from a paralysing Heironymous Bocsh of a snooze. A hybrid of 'The Day after Tommorow', Dali's darker moments and a bit of Crimewatch. I was in a sweaty death panic.
'Right! That's it' I muttered logging on to the BearGryllsWisdom site as I lit my wake-up fag. (note- this website does not exist but it should). Bear would no doubt advocate tea totalling and prayer along with some positive energetic action and a nice horlicks later on. And probably read something a little less traumatic.
I took matters into my own hands and became a domestic legend completing seventeen loads of laundry, dashing off to the Chandlery to procure huge amounts of Lenor, cleaned house, cooked food (without major mishap -win!) done a bit of vaccing, finished me noticeboards, folded the corners of my bog roll into a triangle like they do at the Travelodge - the lot.
It remains to be seen whether this will cure my night terrors. At the library I found an extremely absorbing account of the acsent of K2 in 1981 by a woman I can only describe as a class A patented fruit loop. Her ravings are most distarcting but I fear not good for my emotional well-being but I'm fascinated so I will not return it till it's finished.
I have set all five of my alarm clocks for 7am and will venture into the morrow with light heart and positive attitude. Now I'm just going to have a late night snack of olives, cheese and piccillili while I finish this book....
Borah Out.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Sunday, 28 August 2011
Why I will never be Bear Grylls...
As I sit here ruminatively rolling a 12g pouch of Golden Virginia into 160 teeny fags because it cost £15.69, a thought has born it's way into my addled mind, viz - you can always tell persons of hardy natural instincts by two things; they keep their nails well trimmed and they own at least one item of satorial fayre manufactured by Berghaus. Neither of which apply to me - I am a martyr for cheap stick ons and all my clothes come from Wallis, though to be absolutely accurate I do also possess a fake Barbour, but I've never worn it so it doesn't count.
I have never been much of a one for The Outdoors. When I was 14, I foolishly enrolled on an outward bound residential course at school because I thought it would open my eyes to all that guff spouted by the Romantic poets on whom I was quite keen. I should've know better. Those chaps were all notriously sexually perverse, raging laudenham addicts and had an alarming habit of dropping dead with consumption when it was most inconvenient. Byron may well have swum the Bosphorous or whatever but he also slept with his sister, so rigourous engagement with the Natural World should not necessarily be held up as key to moral integrity.
On that fateful voyage to the aptly named 'Coven', I was asked to ascend and then abseil down a cliff face, canoe down some white water and deliberately capsize at then end of the rapids. It was a given that we would read maps to find a tin of minced beef and another mysteriously labelled 'new potatoes' which we then had to cook in a raging gale in a wood with a defective Primus stove which promptly blew up. Quite unreasonably I thought, we were also expected to dress appropriately, have a neat tent and brush our hair. None of which quite frankly I could be arsed with. A ra-ra skirt and 'Frankie says Relax' T shirt are not effective roughing it kit for Staffordshire in March and can cause quite a scene when your fat arse is jammed into a crevice on your rock ascent and someone has to come and shove you through it.
Anyhoo, enough of my childhood traumas. Suffice to say, when I reached the ignoble age of 16, I was at the very back of the queue for Army recruitment day and have happily stayed in the warm ever since. Which is not to say that I don't respect the strenuous in others, more that I think over the years it has become abundantly clear that I'm a lover not a fighter.
This was born out today when I overcame my innate fear of the Gas Cooker and decided to prepare a Proper Sunday Dinner for the Heir and The Spare. Back in the land of marmite I abide 100% by the adage that the best way to survive single parenthood is to a) earn a lot of money and b) throw it at any minor problem. This is why I spent £700 going to Butlins last Christmas and then got horribly addicted - I just couldn't be bothered to do the cooking and washing up required by Christmas Dinner. My children cannot quite assimilate the sight of me peeling spuds, they are much more used to me peering myopically at a menu and muttering that I've bought the wrong glasses. They have over the years developed quite sophisticated palletes; Chinese, Thai, Balti, Finger Lickin' chicken, the Savoy Grill, you name it they've had it. So the novelty of me actually cooking like a proper mom caused them much hilarity and excitement.
Naturally it went horribly wrong because for days now I have known that the Gas cannister outside the back door has been pretty much empty. I ordered another which was promptly delivered and for four days I have been glaring at it suspiciously everytime I have a fag. Two days ago knowing that this was a punt I was ultimately destined to loose, I went out in the rain and howling gale to master the task of swapping one cannister for the other. After 30 minutes of going at it with a teaspoon, choice anglo-saxon phrases filling the air (not to mention a rather worrying smell of gas, given that I was smoking at the time), I gave up and took to my bed and yet another tale of manly Everest-based derring-do on my nice Kindle. This made me feel better and by proxy competent. 'Oh yes! I could have the heart to stand at 26.000 feet without Oxygen, my major organs eating themselves as I make that final push for the summit,' (might turn up the heating a notch and refill the hot water bottle),'
Suffice to say, the cannister did not get changed and at 6pm tonight with every imaginable veg simmering on the hob and a load of mutton chops grilling away - poof! No gas. I put my wellies on, grabbed my kindle reading light and a small photo of Bear and ventured into the back garden. Much shouting and swearing. I came back in, locked myself in the lavvy and cursed the false sense of security all those caravan holidays in Skegness had given me.
'Can we go to the Narrows and have some nuggets?' came the plaintive cry from the kitchen. 'No! dagnammit, I WILL tame the wilderness!' I yelled back from the lav, 'And anyway that lot cost me £87.46 and I've been preparing it for 6 hours. WE WILL HAVE A PROPER TEA!!!!!'
I went out again with renewed vigour and the multi tool from the Esso garage but to no avail. Ultimately I was rescued by the Doyens of Food Tech and D&T. Rough men who came in the night to defend my chops. Wearing parkas. With hoods. Bear would have done it in the nud, with a broken back using only the power of his mind whilst eating a live octopus which he had caught using his gentitals as bait. Cos that's how he rolls.
However, what I love about Bear is that after his work was done, he would have sat down and had a Pina Colada and done some praying. I feel affinity with this, its recognisable behaviour for one such as I, even though frankly a Pina Colada is a bit gay and I would have a margherita.
But let's face it, it doesn't matter how many episodes of Born Survivor I watch thinking 'this information may come in handy in the South Atlantic', or how many books I read about facing Gaia down with a baseball bat and a steady gaze, I will never cope with frontier living.
As the men left, one sympathetically muttered, 'You'll get there...'
I ruddy doubt it and I definately wouldn't put cold hard cash on the counter of William Hill in the hope of such eventualities.
Now excuse me, I'm off to my warm bed and the Kindle edition of 'Facing Up' -Bear's account of how he climed Everest in an iron lung when he was 12.
Borah out.
I have never been much of a one for The Outdoors. When I was 14, I foolishly enrolled on an outward bound residential course at school because I thought it would open my eyes to all that guff spouted by the Romantic poets on whom I was quite keen. I should've know better. Those chaps were all notriously sexually perverse, raging laudenham addicts and had an alarming habit of dropping dead with consumption when it was most inconvenient. Byron may well have swum the Bosphorous or whatever but he also slept with his sister, so rigourous engagement with the Natural World should not necessarily be held up as key to moral integrity.
On that fateful voyage to the aptly named 'Coven', I was asked to ascend and then abseil down a cliff face, canoe down some white water and deliberately capsize at then end of the rapids. It was a given that we would read maps to find a tin of minced beef and another mysteriously labelled 'new potatoes' which we then had to cook in a raging gale in a wood with a defective Primus stove which promptly blew up. Quite unreasonably I thought, we were also expected to dress appropriately, have a neat tent and brush our hair. None of which quite frankly I could be arsed with. A ra-ra skirt and 'Frankie says Relax' T shirt are not effective roughing it kit for Staffordshire in March and can cause quite a scene when your fat arse is jammed into a crevice on your rock ascent and someone has to come and shove you through it.
Anyhoo, enough of my childhood traumas. Suffice to say, when I reached the ignoble age of 16, I was at the very back of the queue for Army recruitment day and have happily stayed in the warm ever since. Which is not to say that I don't respect the strenuous in others, more that I think over the years it has become abundantly clear that I'm a lover not a fighter.
This was born out today when I overcame my innate fear of the Gas Cooker and decided to prepare a Proper Sunday Dinner for the Heir and The Spare. Back in the land of marmite I abide 100% by the adage that the best way to survive single parenthood is to a) earn a lot of money and b) throw it at any minor problem. This is why I spent £700 going to Butlins last Christmas and then got horribly addicted - I just couldn't be bothered to do the cooking and washing up required by Christmas Dinner. My children cannot quite assimilate the sight of me peeling spuds, they are much more used to me peering myopically at a menu and muttering that I've bought the wrong glasses. They have over the years developed quite sophisticated palletes; Chinese, Thai, Balti, Finger Lickin' chicken, the Savoy Grill, you name it they've had it. So the novelty of me actually cooking like a proper mom caused them much hilarity and excitement.
Naturally it went horribly wrong because for days now I have known that the Gas cannister outside the back door has been pretty much empty. I ordered another which was promptly delivered and for four days I have been glaring at it suspiciously everytime I have a fag. Two days ago knowing that this was a punt I was ultimately destined to loose, I went out in the rain and howling gale to master the task of swapping one cannister for the other. After 30 minutes of going at it with a teaspoon, choice anglo-saxon phrases filling the air (not to mention a rather worrying smell of gas, given that I was smoking at the time), I gave up and took to my bed and yet another tale of manly Everest-based derring-do on my nice Kindle. This made me feel better and by proxy competent. 'Oh yes! I could have the heart to stand at 26.000 feet without Oxygen, my major organs eating themselves as I make that final push for the summit,' (might turn up the heating a notch and refill the hot water bottle),'
Suffice to say, the cannister did not get changed and at 6pm tonight with every imaginable veg simmering on the hob and a load of mutton chops grilling away - poof! No gas. I put my wellies on, grabbed my kindle reading light and a small photo of Bear and ventured into the back garden. Much shouting and swearing. I came back in, locked myself in the lavvy and cursed the false sense of security all those caravan holidays in Skegness had given me.
'Can we go to the Narrows and have some nuggets?' came the plaintive cry from the kitchen. 'No! dagnammit, I WILL tame the wilderness!' I yelled back from the lav, 'And anyway that lot cost me £87.46 and I've been preparing it for 6 hours. WE WILL HAVE A PROPER TEA!!!!!'
I went out again with renewed vigour and the multi tool from the Esso garage but to no avail. Ultimately I was rescued by the Doyens of Food Tech and D&T. Rough men who came in the night to defend my chops. Wearing parkas. With hoods. Bear would have done it in the nud, with a broken back using only the power of his mind whilst eating a live octopus which he had caught using his gentitals as bait. Cos that's how he rolls.
However, what I love about Bear is that after his work was done, he would have sat down and had a Pina Colada and done some praying. I feel affinity with this, its recognisable behaviour for one such as I, even though frankly a Pina Colada is a bit gay and I would have a margherita.
But let's face it, it doesn't matter how many episodes of Born Survivor I watch thinking 'this information may come in handy in the South Atlantic', or how many books I read about facing Gaia down with a baseball bat and a steady gaze, I will never cope with frontier living.
As the men left, one sympathetically muttered, 'You'll get there...'
I ruddy doubt it and I definately wouldn't put cold hard cash on the counter of William Hill in the hope of such eventualities.
Now excuse me, I'm off to my warm bed and the Kindle edition of 'Facing Up' -Bear's account of how he climed Everest in an iron lung when he was 12.
Borah out.
Saturday, 27 August 2011
The GHD factor...
Back home in the fair land of Eng-er-land, I know most of me chums and colleagues will be spending their summers larding up on kebabs, avoiding the marking and watching 'Celebrity Big Brother' and 'The X Factor'. I only really know this because comments about these things appear on my facebook stream and BSFB keep banging on about what a pile of dog CBB is. I have no personal experience of it naturally because in a world of KTV, erratic reception and a total absence of 'Born Survivor' I see no reason for a TV. Not that I haven't got one you understand. The doyen of Food Tech and Beef Maestro sorted it for me, but I haven't got that INVOLVED. It is nice to have a telly - otherwise that unit just looks empty and weird in the corner and people who visit Blenheim will probably erroneously come to the conclusion that I am an aesthetic or Jehovah's Witness or something.
However, I have no need for The X Factor, because here in Stanley I have discovered The GHD factor. Oh Yes,
The Laydeez and I went out for an evening of erudite conversation this evening. Naturally enough us being women, this required careful consideration of outfit, hair and toilette. There is nary a woman on the planet who hasn't spent several hours and the GNP of a small African nation on products to prepare for an evening larking about only to find herself at three a.m looking like a badly coiffured rhodedrendren, but this is normally down to drink. I think it fair to say that the laydeez and I are above such nonsense being for the most part mature women with a fairly high 'I'm not impressed' ceiling. Notwithstanding, by 11pm we all looked like we'd been involved in some form of horrible incident.
People who know me will sign legal documentation to the effect that I never knowingly turn down an evening which includes alcohol, but they may also probably state that not since 1989 have I fallen off a bridge, gone home in one pop sock or locked myself irrevocably in the lavatory. Not that I wish to suggest that the average Saturday night pub crawl in Stanley contains all these elements, but it's a good job I'm advanced in years and corrosive liver damge or else I can imagine all three would have occurred.
Saturday night in Stanley requires commitment. The cocktails can clean your drains, the shorts are served in tiny paper cups and every pub contains a leery selection of service personel who will quite happily indulge a woman's need for whisky shots. Which I say is no bad thing!
What is bad is that after 4 hours of meritorious straightening, we all arrived in the Narrows looking smooth sleek and in control. After 20 minutes getting our thing on to The Quo in our second bar stop, we were beginning to look alightly askew. Not 20 minutes later in The Victory bar, all of our hair appeared to have been in a fight to the death with an otter.
A heavy sea fret, wind and the necessity of wearing a hat to nip for a fag does not make for neat hair. In fairness I probably didn't help myself by insisting on wearing my wolly hat on the dance floor. I maintain this was because Bear Grylls swears by a hat - even if it is fashioned out of his own underpants. My constitution is so brittle I cannot deal with any loss of heat from the scalp, therefore the hat stays on.
The GHD factor was in effect. Reletively sober, despite the best efforts of Stanley's hostelries and the benificence of gentlemen from Her Majesty's Royal Navy and Air Force, we still looked like the average 17 year old after 16 pints of cheeky vimto and a good cry in the bogs. With GHDs costing over a tonne, it would be reasonable to feel a tad cheated - like Jamie Afro when that tool Joe McEldry took the X Factor crown. Shocking
Of course my straighteners cost £4.99 from Wilko so I cannot complain and as I was wearing an outfit that made me a dead ringer for Hattie Jaques it would be churlish of me to only moan about my hair. And I did hear a very funny story about an international incident that led one gentlemen to be barred from Bahrain. All about a camel - you can imagine. I've only ever been barred from a fun pub in Burton and I still maintain that was a terrible misunderstanding...
Might have to book in for a perm though....
Borah out
However, I have no need for The X Factor, because here in Stanley I have discovered The GHD factor. Oh Yes,
The Laydeez and I went out for an evening of erudite conversation this evening. Naturally enough us being women, this required careful consideration of outfit, hair and toilette. There is nary a woman on the planet who hasn't spent several hours and the GNP of a small African nation on products to prepare for an evening larking about only to find herself at three a.m looking like a badly coiffured rhodedrendren, but this is normally down to drink. I think it fair to say that the laydeez and I are above such nonsense being for the most part mature women with a fairly high 'I'm not impressed' ceiling. Notwithstanding, by 11pm we all looked like we'd been involved in some form of horrible incident.
People who know me will sign legal documentation to the effect that I never knowingly turn down an evening which includes alcohol, but they may also probably state that not since 1989 have I fallen off a bridge, gone home in one pop sock or locked myself irrevocably in the lavatory. Not that I wish to suggest that the average Saturday night pub crawl in Stanley contains all these elements, but it's a good job I'm advanced in years and corrosive liver damge or else I can imagine all three would have occurred.
Saturday night in Stanley requires commitment. The cocktails can clean your drains, the shorts are served in tiny paper cups and every pub contains a leery selection of service personel who will quite happily indulge a woman's need for whisky shots. Which I say is no bad thing!
What is bad is that after 4 hours of meritorious straightening, we all arrived in the Narrows looking smooth sleek and in control. After 20 minutes getting our thing on to The Quo in our second bar stop, we were beginning to look alightly askew. Not 20 minutes later in The Victory bar, all of our hair appeared to have been in a fight to the death with an otter.
A heavy sea fret, wind and the necessity of wearing a hat to nip for a fag does not make for neat hair. In fairness I probably didn't help myself by insisting on wearing my wolly hat on the dance floor. I maintain this was because Bear Grylls swears by a hat - even if it is fashioned out of his own underpants. My constitution is so brittle I cannot deal with any loss of heat from the scalp, therefore the hat stays on.
The GHD factor was in effect. Reletively sober, despite the best efforts of Stanley's hostelries and the benificence of gentlemen from Her Majesty's Royal Navy and Air Force, we still looked like the average 17 year old after 16 pints of cheeky vimto and a good cry in the bogs. With GHDs costing over a tonne, it would be reasonable to feel a tad cheated - like Jamie Afro when that tool Joe McEldry took the X Factor crown. Shocking
Of course my straighteners cost £4.99 from Wilko so I cannot complain and as I was wearing an outfit that made me a dead ringer for Hattie Jaques it would be churlish of me to only moan about my hair. And I did hear a very funny story about an international incident that led one gentlemen to be barred from Bahrain. All about a camel - you can imagine. I've only ever been barred from a fun pub in Burton and I still maintain that was a terrible misunderstanding...
Might have to book in for a perm though....
Borah out
Friday, 26 August 2011
Wind's Up!
According to some hereabouts, all new visitors to these fair Falkland Isles are in very real peril of falling victim to the mysterious curse known as the 'Stanley Stone'. Hmmm, being by nature and indeed design an inquisitive beast I went out into the commoonity in search of answers. What is the Stanley Stone and why is it likely to particularly afflict the pre-menopausal woman with limited domestic abilty?
In short, there is much in the way of cake and mutton and spuds and stuff like that here which will make you put on a Godawful muffin top if you don't watch yerself. Combine this with the neccessity of getting a cab everywhere in winter (if you don't and you have just left a tepid English summer you WILL DIE, and no ammount of Bear Grylls press-ups in the nud wll prevent it), and what you have is a rootin tootin, finger linger, doiley encased recipe for an additional stone on the scales.
Far be it from me to eschew the ways of weight gain - I've been in a private competition with myself for several years to see how long it will take me to hit maximum density and I have been doing rather well, even though I say so myself - but really. People are not taking into consideration my singular lack of domestic ability when they waggle a cautious finger (and then use it to wipe away a fragrant crumb).
'Blenheim' the sequal to that rotting carcus I used to affectionately call 'Dunteachin' is a gorgeous place if you like earwigs and horrible carpet, but the dark side of my new abode is that is possessed of a gas cooker. I don't do gas - never have. Given my approach to life it is quite likely I will blow myself up if I have access to gas appliances in my home. It was this concern that made me avoid central heating for all those years - I don't even trust myself with a pilot light. Now of course I am being forced to engage with an ignition switch and all that caper. Troubling, but I must admit quite handy for lighting one's fag on. A ceremic hob is a bugger for that as memory and that large hospital bill serves.
So me, the heir and spare have been eating out a lot principally at two of Stanley's finer establishment 'The Narrows' and 'Jacs' both of which I heartily reccommend should you ever find yourself in the vicinity. And genuinely too, this is not a matter merely of being afraid that I will get a kicking if I bad mouth them or worse still they will bar me thus ensuring me and mine will starve.
The problem is I have never been much of a meat eater. I like a bit of a veg and I'm a martyr for carbs. You can tell what sort of fare is available hither from the advert in this weeks Penguin News for The Narrows;
Sundays - Roast beef, Roast Lamb, Roast Children.
I don't think years of merlot abuse could withstand a whole child..... Jacs do a very fine spicy veg based soup and The Narrows a hearty Vegi burger. With bananas going for around a quid each you can imagine anything green is at a premium and I for one don't want to end up on Bleeker Island raving insanely with a shocking case of scurvy. Trouble is it don't half affect the digestion. The heir spent 4 hours earlier farting all the songs she has ever heard Pixie Lott sing. I have had more occassion to yell the epiphets 'Ooops! More tea Vicar!', 'Nurse! The screens' and 'Taxi for Borah' in the past 16 days than is strictly healthy.
Still! look on the brightside, tonight a gale is blowing hard over Stanley which drowns out all other wind and at least my Jacs bill for a fortnight wasn't £126 unlike some cake fiendy lady I could mention.
Right! I'm off to the fridge to liberate some Waitrose value olives. Yum!
Borah out.
In short, there is much in the way of cake and mutton and spuds and stuff like that here which will make you put on a Godawful muffin top if you don't watch yerself. Combine this with the neccessity of getting a cab everywhere in winter (if you don't and you have just left a tepid English summer you WILL DIE, and no ammount of Bear Grylls press-ups in the nud wll prevent it), and what you have is a rootin tootin, finger linger, doiley encased recipe for an additional stone on the scales.
Far be it from me to eschew the ways of weight gain - I've been in a private competition with myself for several years to see how long it will take me to hit maximum density and I have been doing rather well, even though I say so myself - but really. People are not taking into consideration my singular lack of domestic ability when they waggle a cautious finger (and then use it to wipe away a fragrant crumb).
'Blenheim' the sequal to that rotting carcus I used to affectionately call 'Dunteachin' is a gorgeous place if you like earwigs and horrible carpet, but the dark side of my new abode is that is possessed of a gas cooker. I don't do gas - never have. Given my approach to life it is quite likely I will blow myself up if I have access to gas appliances in my home. It was this concern that made me avoid central heating for all those years - I don't even trust myself with a pilot light. Now of course I am being forced to engage with an ignition switch and all that caper. Troubling, but I must admit quite handy for lighting one's fag on. A ceremic hob is a bugger for that as memory and that large hospital bill serves.
So me, the heir and spare have been eating out a lot principally at two of Stanley's finer establishment 'The Narrows' and 'Jacs' both of which I heartily reccommend should you ever find yourself in the vicinity. And genuinely too, this is not a matter merely of being afraid that I will get a kicking if I bad mouth them or worse still they will bar me thus ensuring me and mine will starve.
The problem is I have never been much of a meat eater. I like a bit of a veg and I'm a martyr for carbs. You can tell what sort of fare is available hither from the advert in this weeks Penguin News for The Narrows;
Sundays - Roast beef, Roast Lamb, Roast Children.
I don't think years of merlot abuse could withstand a whole child..... Jacs do a very fine spicy veg based soup and The Narrows a hearty Vegi burger. With bananas going for around a quid each you can imagine anything green is at a premium and I for one don't want to end up on Bleeker Island raving insanely with a shocking case of scurvy. Trouble is it don't half affect the digestion. The heir spent 4 hours earlier farting all the songs she has ever heard Pixie Lott sing. I have had more occassion to yell the epiphets 'Ooops! More tea Vicar!', 'Nurse! The screens' and 'Taxi for Borah' in the past 16 days than is strictly healthy.
Still! look on the brightside, tonight a gale is blowing hard over Stanley which drowns out all other wind and at least my Jacs bill for a fortnight wasn't £126 unlike some cake fiendy lady I could mention.
Right! I'm off to the fridge to liberate some Waitrose value olives. Yum!
Borah out.
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