Masterchef and Eurostar

I'm addicted to Masterchef, but always seem to be eating a ready meal or bowl of Heinz soup while I'm watching it, which makes me feel a bit depressed.

Sometimes I feel puzzled - who really wants to eat pasta made of squid ink?* It sounds like something the witches in Macbeth might concoct. How about frog entrail foam with toad eye sorbet? Its probably a delicacy somewhere in the world.

There was a pause there while I went to a quiz night, but not knowing the revenue of Eurostar lost us 10th place out of 12 teams. Hmph - I didn't know people could make so much money in a year.

Methinks 'Eurostar' is quite hard to type after three glasses of wine and a packet of cheese and onion.

Do Masterchefs understand the importance of 'cheese and onion' in British society?

Will Walkers Crisps start doing 'Squid Ink and Toad Eye' crisps?

Yum


* regular bloggers will recall that the tins of 'squid in its own ink' would finally have a use after all these years seeing as the marauding gangs never came to rescue me.

The Laughing Sofa

Sometimes not much happens.

You get up.

You go to work.

You come home.

You're tired.

You end up watching too much TV and find yourself dreaming of being a foxy minx in a drink ad, your teeth emit a strange neon glow when you smile, you are paying less than the rest of the world for your car and house insurance and your children smile and enjoy the food you cook them. Your glossy hair flows as you flick your head round. A handsome chap appears in the doorway with some Cointreau/Nescafe and a knowing look. His six pack ripples as he leans over you to plonk it on the table next to the leather sofa that makes everyone laugh as they fall back onto it.

Thank goodness you don't have internal transit discomfort!

Dancing Round Handbags

On Friday I found myself having fun dancing round a handbag - I made a big thing out of laughing at the irony of it as I swirled around, just to make sure no-one thought I really do normally dance round handbags.

Its a very good way to relieve stress. I think work places should drop the 'how to cope with stress' Powerpoint sessions and rush out to the nearest charity shop and deposit handbags on office floors. Stress will become a thing of the past as you watch your line manager cavorting with abandon around a 'bright rubber tote' or your Chief Executive executing a 'boyoing' round a 'hobo'. It could save the country millions.

Team building sessions could take place around a fake crocodile skin clutch (with some early Mud playing in the background) saving lots of money on those rather self conscious awaydays.

So if you are feeling stressed and need a quick fix, forget the alcohol, forget the chocolate, put some 'groovy' sounds on and fling your handbag on the floor. Please note a Tesco carrier bag will do in an emergency if you don't own a suitable handbag/manbag. There's nothing to be done if you don't have any 'groovy' sounds though - unless you can hum well.


Some handbags to inspire you (more suitable than the search results for 'cavorting')

NB Cavorting is rather a nice word, sounds quite naughty like a lack of clothes might be involved, but actually just means 'to bound or prance about in a sprightly manner; caper'.

Glad we got that one sorted.

Nasty Yellow and Black Stripey Things

I was just pottering around this morning, making beds, enjoying being at home and listening to the radio, hurting nobody.

Then what happens?

As I grabbed a blanket, it felt like a shard of glass had impailed my little finger. Leaping round the bedroom shaking my hand so violently it was in danger of falling off, I spotted the culprit. A very large, dozy wasp clambering along the edge of the bedcover.

I used the cunning glass and beer mat trick (suprisingly both readily available in son's bedroom) and left the wasp prisoner on the windowsill while I contemplated his fate. The evil alter ego you have heard about before thought about the pleasures of revenge with the squashing option. I sensibly ignored this thought and flung the hapless creature to its freedom out of the bedroom window.

My little finger has now swollen and it is making it quite hard to type. But at least I have a clear conscience.

Revenge - not pretty, especially when you end up with squelchy gunge on the pillow.

Wasps, enhancing our experience of the Cosmos?

Minimalism or Kerplunk?

Where do all the bits go? There must be truck loads of Scrabble letters, Kerplunk sticks and Cludo weapons somewhere. What about all the jigsaw pieces you never found again?

Kerplunk was always the most annoying, quite a fun game (the children in the John Moores catalogue looked like they were having a terrific time) but you always end up with the jar contraption and a few desultory marbles and not enough sticks to hold the them up. The catalogue didn't show that did it? Perfect children sobbing because they had lost the bits.

A bit like 'Grand Designs' never go back to all those perfect people living in perfect houses with loads of glass walls. I yearn to see Kevin the 'compere' go and do a surprise visit a year later to see whether the perfect people are finding life with ten gallons of Windowlene, a chamois and a tall stepladder getting dull. Those minimalist houses wouldn't have a Kerplunk stick out of place, and I bet they have the full compliment of Scrabble letters in the box, hidden to create the illusion they never get bored enough to resort to board games. What do people do in minimalist houses? Do they panic that, just by being in them, they make them untidy?

Live life to the full and fling those Kerplunk sticks around with abandon, make rude words with Scrabble letters and throw away one piece of every jigsaw puzzle you own.

Anarchy! (Scores 15)

Latin 'n' Monks

I was listening to Gregorian Chants on the way in to work this morning. I had become really bored with the compilation tape 'Party 2001' and flung it over my shoulder. At some lights I had grabbed the first tape to hand and after freeing it from some 'tired' pick 'n' mix, shoved it in the player. I had forgotten about the Gregorian chants. Bit tricky to sing along to (my Latin isn't up to much these days), so a disappointing journey to work.

Talking of Pick 'n' Mix makes me wonder if the demise of Woollies is also the demise of 'n'. Perhaps there are still a few fish 'n' chip shops around, or are Chaz 'n' Dave still strumming away somewhere? Its quite hard to say 'n'. Sounds like you are trying out a new language with a gutteral tone you aren't quite sure of.

In fact, 'n' has been quite clever, as it has escaped all eternity as 'n', where 'n' = some nasty part of a mathematical equation you couldn't solve.

So today's conundrum is; insoluble equations or unsingalongable songs.

QED

A Trifling Matter

There is something so nice about having the spag bol bubbling away on the stove, the fire roaring away in the grate, and some loud music pounding away. Its so not work. Its so not stressful. Its so home.

There was a pause then while we ate the spag bol, which was actually a trifle disappointing (not enough salt). It was also disappointing because there wasn't a trifle involved as a pudding option. If there had been, I would have had to dig caves under the cold custard layer as I have never been partial to the wibbly yellow stuff. Why can't we have trifles without the cold custard? I suppose it wouldn't be a trifle then, but a bifle.

I know, I'll start the bifle fan club. I wonder if, like a magician, you could ever remove the cold custard layer (ccl) in one go and let the cream dollop down straight onto the jelly/sponge combo (pre-soaked in Harvey's Bristol Cream)? What could you do with the left over ccl? Would it work as a frisbee? Could you start selling them to circuses for the clowns? Is this where the custard pie originated from?

Have people in circuses already been eating bifles for centuries? Is this why people run away to join the circus - they can't stand trifles?

I suppose you could have a bifle with a sachet of those hundreds and thousands to form the third element. They always looked so promising, but taste so disappointing. Reminiscent of when I had my tonsils out aged 7, the nurse held out a tablespoon of strawberry jam and said, 'eat it, it will taste nice'. As it was packed full of anaesthetic, it tasted completely vile. I never trust a member of the medical profession wearing the same sort of twisted smile as they say something like, 'this won't hurt'.

I'm not saying hundreds and thousands are really lignocane or anything (hmmm maybe that would make the trifle more fun and effective for stress relief), but they are a let down. Not as bad as those silver balls though, what's the point in them, unless you're a dentist drumming up business?

So, the question to perplex you today is, 'edible decorative silver balls - what's the point?'

OR

Trifle or Bifle? Which way do you swing?

Pyramus and Thisbe with the Meter Man

I had a cup of coffee in a global conglemorate in Wimbledon Village yesterday. Disappointingly only the high bar stool area had seats free. At least I was the only one at the three bar counter, so consoled myself that I could spread out a bit, and territorially put my bag on the seat next to me. The seats were at the window, so I was looking forward to a bit of people watching. Luckily I had been able to park exactly in front of the cafe, so could enjoy the view of The Skip, squeezed in amongst the Porches and BMWs.

Within about two minutes someone came in and made a great fuss about getting on the end bar stool, then her partner joined in making a fuss about arranging the seats 'just so', and we ended up shoulder to shoulder. They did apologise for 'taking up my personal space' (cue bleak smile from me) but there was nothing to be done and I had to sit there trying to enjoy my tall cappuccino while they lovingly shared a chocolate cookie. The event wasn't enhanced by spotting a Parking Warden approaching my car. At least it gave me an excuse to leave the 'love birds' pecking at the chocolate crumbs and provide some entertainment for them as I jumped into the car double quick. The meter man was determined not to be thwarted and tapped on the window. The Skip only opens the electric driver's window when it feels like it, so we had to conduct our conversation through the smallest crack of the open door while Saturday traffic flew past just milimetres away. If I had opened it a bit too far, the parking man would have been minced up by passing lorries - I chose not to listen to my evil alter-ego on this point. We carried on like Pyramus and Thisbe while my hand twitched on the door handle. Luckily, we ended up all smiley and matey and new best friends and I didn't get a parking ticket (which would have seemed cheap compared to the price of coffee anyway).

An Urban Adventure

We had a fire alarm at work today. It was quite jolly, seeing everyone emptying out of the building, wondering where they all came from, and why hadn't I seen them before. After negotiating the three lane gyratory system to reach the huge car park assembly area, chatty groups formed in the winter sunshine between the myriad rows of sparkling parked cars. Graffitied trains trundled past on the underground railway tracks (which are overground here) as monitoring cameras cheerily swung around watching everyone from the top of their forest of poles. I decided to enjoy another moment of anarchy (even more adventurous than using the number ten in Suduko), and popped into a pie shop to buy a cornish pasty on the way back to the office.

Luckily no smoke was issuing from the 15 storey office block I call home for 8 hours a day, so I am safely back after the adventure, sitting in my bland grey office and listening to the buses rumble past the window decorated with pollution stained net curtains. We're not supposed to open the windows here due to the air conditioning/central heating. Another little moment of anarchy!

The cornish pasty was washed down with a cup of tea, but I do feel a bit gloopy and am wishing I had gone for the organic soup instead.

The End of the Line

There is something a bit odd about petrol station shops. I think it must be the strange mixture of goods for sale; engine oil, condoms, milk. And those family sized bags of sweets jutting out at you from those sticky outy wire arms, shouting 'Take me! Take me!' (lucky they're near the condoms) when all you really wanted was 20 litres of unleaded.

Everyone's on their way somewhere else, which gives an unsettled feeling - a bit like that 'non-vibe' of an airport. The best places are always at the end of the line. Everyone's there because they want to be, which makes it feel calm.

Digital Anarchy

I think I am actually getting BORED WITH SUDUKO. This is a bit worrying. Instead of enhancing the morning cup of tea, its becoming a BIT OF A DRAG. Just how interesting can it be to PUT NUMBERS IN SQUARES? Who would be bovvered if I CHEATED and just put ANY NUMBER in ANYWHERE?

Maybe I should be anarchic and put a number ten in one box?

How dull is my life if this is my idea of ANARCHY?

Help!

Bin Juice

No one likes taking the rubbish out, and if the bin has been festering too long under the sink, you might become a victim of 'Bin Juice'. You bravely pull the liner out of the plastic surround, like a midwife delivering a baby, while the slithers of semi-rotten vegetable peel drop on the floor. You try not to look too closely at the bottom of the bin; an area that your cleaning prowess regularly misses as the bin is always full when you have your rubber gloves on. The experience is not enhanced by the smell of fermentation. So, you hurry to the garden door ready to fling the rubbish out but realise, too late, that the cheap bin liners can't cope with the corner of a ready meal sleeve and torn the side. By now the handles are also ripping, but worst of all, a fetid concoction of tea dregs, liquified vegetation and cooking grease are seeping onto your kitchen floor. Welcome to 'Bin Juice'.

Its much nicer in the morning to have orange juice.

Never Sit on a Warm Stool

The high 'bar stool'. Why? They're hard to get on to for the shorter person and once you're up there, you can't shuffle around to maximise your comfort. Having climbed the North Face of the stool, you end up eating or drinking your refreshments while at an awkward juxtaposition with the table or counter. Indeed, if your bar stool is at one of those narrow counters, you will find that the edges of your newspaper embarrassingly overlap with the person sitting next to you. Did you really want to read about the stock market or were you enjoying an update on the soaps? Your elbows will be in danger of invading each other's personal space as well. Most concerning however, is if the seat area of the bar stool isn't ample enough you are at risk of your buttocks drooling over the edges. Helpful tip: make sure no-one you are hoping to impress is behind you while sitting on a bar stool.

I think my dislike comes from a documentary I once saw about a nudist camp; I haven't really got over the naked people sitting on their bar stools.

Pincher Snowman

I went for a walk in the park yesterday, and was somewhat confused by the sight of a drowning snowman in the lake. He was lying face down in the water. Had he deliberately committed suicide? Had he been murdered?

What would lead a snowman to commit suicide? Listening to 'Frosty the Snowman' too often? Thaw-induced facial disfigurement? An inability to sustain warm and loving relationships? The prospect of global warming?

Why would you murder a snowman? Because he hadn't been n-ice enough? (sorry)

Did his life flash before him as his icy lungs gasped their last? Did he see black lightning? Had he, in fact, been dead all along?

I bravely resisted the urge to wade in and rescue him, and anyway, the ducks seemed quite happy to have a new island. Nice to know you can be useful after your death.

Opening the Mail

I remember the days when getting a letter used to be fun. Today I opened the post and had received: Gas bill £402, Electricity bill £319 and Vehicle Tax notification £250. No love letters, no winnings from any competition I forgot I had entered, nothing nice at all in fact. Possibly this is my fault. I can't remember when I last wrote a chatty letter; stuff tends to be more impersonal and electronic these days. The only way to 'personalise' an e-mail being a naff little symbol made up of the largely forgotten parts of the computer keyboard; the semi colon and colon. With a real letter you could choose the paper, the type of pen, the colour of the ink. You could embellish it with pictures and squirt perfume over it, or in the case of a sad letter, let your tears drip onto the page and blur the ink. Whatever happened to the 'SWALK' on the back of the envelope, raising hopes of intimate secrets on the inside? How wonderful, to pick up a letter and run to your room and fling yourself on the bed to enjoy it, how much more romantic than opening an e-mail on a monitor in an office area. What about the bundles of love letters tied up in red ribbon and stowed away in the attic to ready to be discovered long after your death and published in a best selling book? And if you were getting a letter from an ancient relative, you could tell by the handwriting how frail they were. I believe somewhere the last letter written in 1545 by Sir Thomas Moore while awaiting his death in the Tower of London still exists. It was written on scraps of paper with a piece of coal. Not at all the same experience as an e-mail with a 'sad face motif'from a laptop would have been, or a posting on a Social Networking 'Wall' with a mood indicator note (not sure what you could choose for 'about to be beheaded').

The digital revolution has its benefits, but maybe we've lost something of the real depth of communication in translation.

The Ten Golden Rules of Elevensies

I’ve noticed that I’ve been writing a lot about buns and beverages, so I thought I would give you my ten top tips about Elevensies:

Elevensies don’t have to be taken at Eleven, it is very important to be flexible in this area of Elevensie protocol. An Elevensie can happen at 10am, 3pm or any other time when a delectable punctuation is required in your day.

Elevensies should always involve a hot beverage. To be pedantic, this should really be coffee before noon, tea after.

An Elevensie isn’t an Elevensie unless a calorific snack is consumed. It is bad form to have a savoury snack for Elevensies, the golden rule is; the more sugar, the better.

Icing is a very important element of an Elevensie.

A friend to chat to is also an enhancing element of the Elevensie

You can’t have too many Elevensies in a day.

Elevensies, following due protocol, are good for reducing stress in the workplace.

If your line manager doesn’t approve of the tea break, invite him or her to join you for ‘Tiffin’, a more elite form of the Elevensie. ‘Tiffin’ should include bone china crockery and a crumpet with plenty of butter (this is the only occasion when a savoury item is welcomed in an Elevensie format).

Elevensies can be used for ‘networking’ opportunities among work colleagues, but go easy on the networking, heavy on the calories to ensure success.

If in doubt about any aspect of the Elevensie, read ‘Paddington’* books for research.

Diets and caffeine intolerances should not be discussed in the correct form of the Elevensie.

*this does not refer to railway timetables

Changing the World Starts with a Good Cup of Tea

Some days are just a bit on the dull side. Today was one of those days. Everything was a bit non-descript. I know you should make the most of every day, and jump out of bed shouting 'go for it' or 'we can' or something similar, but every once in a while life goes just a bit, well, nothingy. It's embarrassing even writing it down, it's almost a modern taboo to confess to it. Perhaps I should read a worthy tome or get out some paints and daub an insight into life itself - but I don't want to do any of that. What I really want to do is lie on the settee staring at the ceiling and indulge in feeling quite pointless for a while. I did buy a 'chocolate therapy' pudding earlier, but even that was a bit of a let down. I didn't like the way the texture of the brownie bits mingled awkwardly with the mousse. Why put slightly burnt sponge in a mousse anyway. What's that about?

Enough of this Eeyoreness, I'd better shout 'hey' in a meaningful way and start changing the world. I'll just go and put the kettle on first.

Give Me Your Tired and I'll Get Them a Coffee

Its very early in the morning, the road outside is still looking dangerously shiny. I've just seen an intrepid pedestrian in full Amundsen gear trudging up the middle of the road. I'm going to excavate The Skip out of its icy lair and see whether I can make it to work without having to use a bus or train.

The only good thing about going to work on public transport is the huge cup of take away coffee I can get en route. I love the way everyone comes out of coffee shops holding their cardboard beaker (complete with naff plastic lid) aloft, like the Statue of Liberty weilding the torch of enlightenment. If they have their coats slung over their arms, it all adds to the effect.

Do you feel enlightened after your morning coffee? Do you feel the urge to work towards freedom and justice? Or do you just wonder whether you should have bought a bun to go with it after all?

Are We Nearly There Yet?

The Skip looked like it was a competitor in 'Dancing on Ice' this morning. The sparkling white road had sealed itself round the tyres. I decided not to 'go for a spin' in case the car took this more literally than is generally meant. It was public transport for me again. At the station the shutters were down on the ticket window and there was a long queue forming around the forecourt as would be passengers struggled with the slowest ticket machine in the world. Naturally, as you would expect in this situation, the only-train-for-the-next-hour came and went while fists started thumping the screen and the whine of a printer spent ages detailing the exact route the passenger would take in copperplate writing (well, it might as well have been). The only amusement to while away the time was watching people running across the impacted ice of the forecourt (no gritting) to catch the only-train-for-the-next-hour and skidding, arms akimbo, into the current fist waving ticket machine victim.

The flashy station information board said, 'limited service, listen for announcements'. There were no announcements, but then there were no trains. Losing the will to live I decided to press the very big blue button on the scary information machine. This caused a stir among the other passengers, and I noticed one man move his paper away from his face to evesdrop. I toyed momentarily with the notion that the crowd on the platform were admiring my nerve in pressing the information button. The machine then made a series of the loudest bleeps ever heard - marking me out as the person who had dared stand out from the crowd. I think the bleeps were designed to be loud enough to be heard at the next station, rather than just ringing in the operatives' office. I asked the machine when the next train was, and it helpfully said there were lots 'going around'. I looked around and couldn't see one. The machine then thought there would be one 'any minute'. There was an audible sigh of relief from the platform. Sure enough, without any accompanying announcements or any indication where the train was going, it appeared. You do need to be telepathic with public transport and have confidence that the train you are stepping onto is actually going to the right place. The only-bus-for-the-next-hour I caught next was the opposite, in that its in-built machine told you far too much. Every stop was pinpointed with almost satellite accuracy, which just served to emphasise how slowly we were moving towards our destination. On the way home it helpfully repeated it all in reverse order. I had a game of Tetris on my phone and ended with motion sickness. I do hope the ice has melted tomorrow.

Snow, Missiles and Tin Ducks

The Skip is quite a tall car so I had to use a broom to scoop the four inches or so of snow off the roof this morning. I love the way sheets of snow slid off, holding shape as if the car was molting. The drive to work was all in second gear and demanded so much concentration I didn't even dare play a compilation tape. I felt quite smug though, as I veered carefully past a low slung Jaguar that had run aground on a relatively small drift. After about three hours in the office working on essential canape crises and buffet blunders, someone thought we should all go home again as the snowfall was going to get heavier. Sadly, my smugness was thwarted on the drive home, as groups of schoolchildren with no lessons to go to were out on the pavements rolling huge snowballs and throwing them at the cars, rolling past like tin ducks in a shooting range. Its quite hard to look composed as a spotty youth is lining you up in his sights and taking aim with a snowman's head.

Vincent Van Gough should have painted Marigolds

I'm getting so carried away with this tidying thing that I've even been through all the e-mails lying around in my inbox and filed them away. Soon there will be NOTHING LEFT TO TIDY UP. This is a shame as I have now got into the hang of walking around the house with loud music playing; a pile of 'J Cloths' in one hand and a can of squirty stuff in the other. I feel an involuntary 'tsk tsk' leaving my lips as I see a fleck of dirt on the oven or a patch of dust I've missed. I'm getting worried my personality is changing. Is there something the manufacturers put into 'Mr Sheen' that permeates your brain and turns you into a dusting addict? Does 'Windowlene' clean your mind out? Or is it the 'J Cloth'? They lie there looking all innocent in your cleaning cupboard, but the minute you pick one up you succomb to the secretly impregnated chemicals in the sinister blue and white stripes that mean you can't resist the urge to start wiping surfaces down. You snap on the sunflower yellow Marigolds, hold your hands up like a surgeon about to delve into an abdominal cavity, and plunge into the sink to scoop out the gunk that's been there long enough to start a colony of MRSA all of its own. There's nothing that can't be achieved with a pair of Marigolds on.