Monthly Archives: December 2010
Until I’m feeling a bit better and the small matter of the 6000 words is dealt with.
In the meantime, enjoy.
If I was really on one it would be the drum n bass remix…
I much prefer a trip to the vets than the doctors. Unless it’s not routine, which is awful. Today was the Rudi Dog’s day for his booster vaccination, which means I’ve had him for three whole years. He’s now transformed from the malnourished, scared of his own shadow lurcher from Navan of December 2007 into a passable impression of a pet. He used to double-back upstairs when he saw the lead, try to run off blindly if there was a sudden noise, and a car passing by on the street caused severe mental trauma. He still growls like a gurrier when approached if he’s half-asleep but, I suppose, some of us wouldn’t be without him now.
He has to keep his Coat of Power on in the vets. He feels naked without it.
I seem to have a set of double standards going on. When Rihanna comes out with another set of explicit lyrics I tut and sigh and find myself turning the radio off; when Gyptian comes on with his all-round lewdness I can’t help but turn it up. This mix is a perfect pick me up in the morning.
Warning: an entirely self-indulgent post and of no interest to anyone I know of. In fact, I will be disappointed if the WBWC contingent aren’t throwing rotten fruit at the Apple Mac already.
I detest going, so I usually wait until all other home remedies and cures have failed before I tip up in the grotty waiting room, where you are bound to pick something else up to go with your other ailments.
This evening there looked like there were hundreds of people before me, but it was actually a party of four, a party of three, and me and another woman who had mind-bogglingly managed to bring ourselves.
One couple had a baby in a pushchair. The baby didn’t seem ill. The man, who looked too similar to the baby to not be his father, was talking loud enough for me to hear. And the tone of the conversation was very pleasant and chatty with the woman who had to be his partner (unless she had just stolen him and the baby). The strange thing was that he was asking her random questions, like you might ask someone you had just met in a bar. And she was answering them. If it were me, he would have got an instantaneous killer look for his inane and excessively loud conversation.
One may have escaped over my book as it was.
There must be something wrong with me.
It’s a good book.
I took this the other day, on the day there was an outbreak of dalmatians.
Today the dog walk was two labs, a poodle and a growly lurcher. The old warrior Billy was confined to barracks with a bandaged paw. We managed to get round without him but it was not quite the same. His old lab mate Max has gone, and has been replaced with Jasper.
No wonder “the sky was on the floor” as my friend put it.
There’s a Where we Walk post and photo from one summer somewhere on this blog; it features the girls and Rudi with his tail curled unattractively like a pig in it. This is the same place and we haven’t walked there for months due to the cold. Yesterday was a beautiful sunny day so Rudi and I took our chances. I was going to walk all the way along the bottom of the fields by the brook, but if you carry on along there you end up at a small lake and I had visions of Rudi doing a bad impression of an Ice Road Trucker on the surface, and us both dying as a result of the rescue. So, instead I swung left up the hill towards the big tree and when we got to the crest, this is the sight we were greeted with.
No jokes about Cruellas please, these ladies were lovely.
Their youngest dalmatian had been recently rescued, with a broken tail, from an evil puppy farm. Ahhh.
I can now soberly report that the practically zero effort Christmas dinner was well received. Nothing wrong with it, and better than that: not as disappointing as previous ones where heaven and earth were moved beforehand.
I did peel and chop my own carrots and sweetheart cabbage, and I did eschew the bag of brown turkey gravy at the BP. There are some depths to which even I cannot sink
a) buying their Wild Bean Coffee – no matter how much they beg me to
b) buying pre-made brown poultry gravy in a clear pouch *slight retch*
One of my most simple pleasures in life is boiling up a chicken carcass to make stock. I love picking out the bones and the gristle and the remaining skin and bits of meat to give to the dog, after thoroughly steaming up the kitchen. And I love the way the stock can sometimes turn quite opaque, and how the liquid turns to a golden jelly when it’s cooled. So, I would be happy to have you believe that I always have quantities of frozen chicken stock (in ice cube trays, if the prophet Nigella is to be followed on the matter) to call on for Christmas gravy.
The Pimping bit is chef’s secret…
Yesterday, when I was not buying BP gravy, but I was in the garage buying some other bits, I was happy to be served by the fella with waist-length hair. I prefer him, or Dan who reminds me of another Dan I know, to patiently bear my messing up the card machine for the umpteenth time. One of the women, Charlotte, is the most earnest coffee and pastries flogger ever and I am a bit intimidated by her; she makes me feel I am only a heartbeat away from caving in to her demands and ordering four coffees and twenty doughnuts. Anyway, yesterday I greeted yer man seasonally, to be polite, and asked if he minded working on The Day. Not at all, he said, it gets me out of things. Presumably pimping the gravy being one of them. Then he said
Bah Humbug and gave me this.
Now that’s a quality Christmas transaction.