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.
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