Jury of My Peers?

I am on the train, bound for whatever is the opposite of home: a place I cannot properly pronounce, much less locate on a map, where apparently your bog-standard sub-zero temperatures won’t cut it – they are hoping for a balmy -20 in the next couple of days.

In my bag are woolen long-johns, skates, and a dress-just-in-case. The Better Man, for whom this is a return to the old home town, has promised me a lake, and forest, a picturesque village, homegrown salmon, and a bottle of champers for the New Year.

He has also promised me ample time to write, and in case the scenery and the locals prove uninspiring, I have brought books for back-up – The Last Life, by Claire Messoud, shows promise, and the latest Harlan Coben is always trustworthy. In short: I am on tack for a few days of exoticism and relaxation is sweet union. So why the nerves?

Parents do not faze me. The fathers are normally either dead or on the booze in a sociable sort of way, none of which present much of a challenge. As to mums… well, they may be a bit of handful, but really in the end, they are no more than the proverbial bark to the bite of their sons. After all: what with the statistical risk of your beau turning out to be Toad of Toad Hall, why turn the Molehill Mommy Dearest into a Mountain of Woe?

There was this one guy (mad as a hatter, studying to be a surgeon) I used to live with. We used to visit his Mother a scary amount; her cooking wasn’t quite up to scratch and she’d sit on the side of the tub, while I was in it. But still, her cinnamon swirls are not what springs immediately to mind when considering why he and I are no longer living together. More so his incessant rage, punching of walls, and pathological jealousy – all which would have ensured, had we still been shacked up, that we’d have been shacked up someplace secure and bondage-y.

There was a Greek mama, who gestured me into the broom-closet of a guy I was in the early stages of dating, to show where the vacuum was kept. Her slightly non-feminist views paled, though, in comparison to his: and those of his voyeuristic dog.

And somewhere far back in ancient history, there was a mum who danced in a loose white blouse, and kept filling up my glass, and whispered with smoke and lipstick, giggling in my ear. A fond memory – fonder than that of her son, who mid-relationship decided to pursue a career as Gigolo. For real.

Getting back on track, however: even had I been worried, the answer the Better Man gave when I asked what to expect from his parents, would have dispelled immediately all fear. ”It will be nothing like meeting your mum” translates reassuringly: nothing like meeting my mum means no grilling as to political views, career choices, family dynamics, or backhand.

But there is something much, much scarier than Parents lurking in the dark woods into which I am heading. A primal force, a power running deep. A coven, a band, a hoard bound by mystical rituals, rules of ancient law. Childhood friends.

Boys play together and shape each other. They give each other bruises and porn, they give each other accents and fags, they smash each others teeth out with hockey sticks and in all the blood and gore and milky dunked cookies they forge a special, steady foundation. And those childhood friends, breathing the same farts and stealing the same candy, give of course the right, 30-odd years on, of judging The New Girlfriend.

That would be me. And me would be attending a big birthday bash, bringing all these worthy jurors together, on Saturday. And not to mention: the worthy juror’s wifes.

Do I profess a love of hunting, or do I squeal becomingly? Do I do Sara Palin (as my glasses do suggest) or do I do Carrie, as my heels demand? Do I try to blend or do I flaunt my difference? Do I coo over the babies or do I tell about my work? Do I sit demurely or do I laugh at what I hope are jokes?

Or do I babbble nervously, without prior plan, and hope for the best?

Love and Mack the Knife

1.

Knocking on wood. I always follow up any ill wish or negative presumption by knocking on wood. If there is no wood handy, I knock my wooden head. Three times cancels out the evil – any more or less compounds it – so if you knock four times in the first round, then you have to go another three to cancel out the mistake of the four, and then a second three, to cancel the initial faux pas, that caused you to start knocking the first three, which then turned into four.

Keys on tables, are of course, an impossibility. Luckily, there is never any need to PUT keys on table, since you can easily slip a piece of paper, or a book, or a plate, or something, under the key to prevent direct contact. A tablecloth does not count, since it forms part of the intrinsic table identity, and flat objects are preferable, since in balancing keys on a few pens, or an old box of matches, you never completely rule out the risk of the keys tumbling onto tabletop.

As for comparing hands, there is never any true need, but if you have foolishly gone and done it, like say in the beginning of a relationship, when you throw caution to the wind and view the world through rosy glasses, the bad luck can be reversed by making a fist (each) and bumping fists against each other, three times. Don’t leave it to long, the cure must follow swiftly on the poison.

Being vigilant against the horrors that lurk under ladders, in black cats, and mirrors in the dark need not impair your day-to day life. A careful eye and some basic precautions will go a long way towards adverting danger. However, there is one area of life, where superstition (or as I like to call it – awareness) has been handicapping me. The kitchen.

2.

Good knifes are a must. But good knifes cost a bundle, and not all chefs have a solid save-up-and-then-get moral. Some of us spend all our money of fake leopard pumps and premium cuts of meat, leaving no spare cash with which to buy tools.

In the case of pots, and pans, pepper grinders and oven mitts, this lack of cash has never been a problem. Yearly birthdays and Christmases
have provided with Creuset, Peugot, and all sorts of odd implements. But never, ever, any knives.

You see: in my family, there is a firm belief that giving a knife, scissors, an axe, or even needles, is a hostile gesture, dangerous as the gift will literally cut the cords of love and/or friendship. Knowing this since childhood, I would have been a bit ashamed to put “the end of love” on my Christmas list. But even if I would have, my mother would refuse point blank, my grandmother would stare blankly at the request, and my sister wouldn’t for the world.

3.

Luckily, the Better Man never needed asking. On entering my life, and my kitchen, he immediately noticed that there was but one thing missing from it: a good set of knives. The sort of sawing-stabbing-mutilation that has been my approach to slice and dice, depressed him. The red handle bread-knife, did not inspire, nor did the grapefruit knife. He would almost weep, or swear at least, as beautiful steaks were tortured and ripped.

I explained, as well as I could, the situation. I explained how getting knifes was an impossibility. How him buying me a knife, would in all probability, end our relationship.

The Better Man replied, succinctly, that if he didn’t get me some knifes, it would, in all probability, end our relationship.

And then, for Christmas, and with a frightening disregard for the displeasure of the gods, he went and presented me with the two whacking devices of my dreams: a beautifully balanced Sabatier, and a hefty cleaving blade from the Asian shop down on the corner.

4.

Last night, I cooked him dinner. We had some wine I got from my semi-italian stepfather for Christmas, and the wilted greens were served with the Georg Jensen serving spoon my grandma gave me, on the pure linen cloth mum had chosen. The meat was very tender, cut to perfection.

And I got to thinking. A love that survives superstition is of course, a great love. But even if it didn’t – wouldn’t it sort of be worth those blades?

At My Leisure

Christmas, Holy Day of Foodies everywhere, this year joins five or so die-hard traditionalist families, each bringing their own much loved specialities to the table.

There is the boiled cold tongue of my brother-in-law, the Russian herring of my aunt, the champagne-and-stout brew of my uncle, the minty kisses of my brothers girlfriend – not to mention the patés, salmon, lemon herring, parselyd herring, herring-beetroot-salad, meatballs, and cabbage universally agreed upon as indispensible.

There is the fennel-scented crisp-bread, and the two types of sausage, the Christmas pudding and the Stilton tempered just so, two types of sausage, the specially imported mustard, the ham on the bone and the half-moon-long-leavened bread, the hops-and-honey-bread and never forget, the saffron swirls.

And as always, the home preparation from scratch of all these dishes serve, more than anything, as a reminder of how far removed our family has become from normal society. Take for instance, the trouble of finding good quality intestines for stuffing sausage these days, not to mention the near impossibilities of finding a small-scale smoke house in the city. From the frightened outcries of colleagues, as one discusses in detail the dicing of lard, to the raised eye-brows of the Better Man, as he comes over to find me covered in flour from making own crisp-bread – the path of the obsessive DIY-cook is riddled with suspicions and ridicule.

Yes, the art of making Christmas is a dying one, much like painting in oil, or Latin versing. Take for instance the impossibility of finding a sporre, the small knife that cuts zig-zag edges, needed in the baking of Klenätter, deep-fried lemon brandy shortbread. The sporre of my mother having been lost, cousin and I scoured the city shops for a replacement.

We found a special kind of cheese grater, with a bowl attached. We found three kinds of pizza-wheels, and two kinds of cork-screws, and all sorts of appliances for heating ready made meals. We even found, to our horror, omelette-mix in a jar…

I guess it was when we saw that people actually buy egg and water mixed ready, that we surrendered a small part of Yule and settled on making the Klenätter nouveau – something that both our grandmother, mothers, and my sister commented on with horror as the dessert was set out.

Anyhoodle, what with the pressure of making the sausages, the salted leg of mutton, and the almond pastries, and the spicing of the wine, all come together harmoniously -and almost as important – non-toxic, I looked very much forward to relaxing into a stint of eating the stuff, and reading a few well chosen books . In fact, I planned to surface only for a NewYears trip up north – an opportunity for a five course New Years feast.

But lo and behold: instead of reclining at ease on a sofa eating left over ham, I am reclining in my bed, very much Struck Down with Pneumonia, hardly able to swallow, much less taste, any of the joys of the table.

Does it suck? Yes. But will it be the means of preserving my waist? Yes. And most importantly, will a few days laid up in bed and unable to down much else than tea give me the opportunity of writing down – for your enjoyment – all the recipes that in my book, make the season bright? Damn straight.

Now, say fare-well to your last year of cabbage-from-a-can.

Nightly fight

Silent night? Out of sight,
But I wish for it, all right
As yon snoring man beside me
keeps a-trumpeting Reveille,
Out cold and hogging the pillow!
Out cold and hogging the pillow!

Silent sleep? I’m counting sheep
Floorboards quake as rumbling deep
Snoring stream from neighbouring nose
puts me in mind of a suction hose
Christ, he’s loud as the railway!
Christ,he’s loud as the railway!

Silent hour? I wake up dour,
Taking a short and sullen shower
Washing the night from my tired face
Embracing dawn’s redeeming grace,
I can rest at the office!
I can rest at the office!

Mirth Without Mischief

On the first day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
an eviction notice!

On the second day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice!  

On the third day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice!  

On the fourth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice!  

On the fifth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice!  

On the sixth day of Christmas
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

 

On the seventh day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me nothing at all which was a nice break.

On the eighth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Eight bags of laundry,  
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

On the ninth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Nine gin and tonics at office party, 
Eight bags of laundry,  
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

On the tenth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Tension in the bedroom,
Nine gin and tonics at office party, 
Eight bags of laundry,  
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

On the eleventh day of Christmas, 
My shitty Karma sent me
A December grey as month eleven, 
Tension in the bedroom,
Nine gin and tonics at office party, 
Eight bags of laundry,  
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

On the twelfth day of Christmas, 
my shitty Karma sent me 
Twelve pounds to go, 
A December grey as month eleven, 
Tension in the bedroom,
Nine gin and tonics at office party, 
Eight bags of laundry,  
Into sixes and sevens, 
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice!

My shitty Karma sent me
Into sixes and sevens,
Five siblings to gift, 
Four digits of overdraft, 
Three impending deadlines, 
Double Carpal tunnel, signing merry x-mas
And an eviction notice! 

Santa Klaus

1.
Life sometimes bears an uncanny resemblance to a nursery rhyme. I like things just so, and you like things just so, but if my so is your no – then what colour is the cow, or the spout, or the singing dancing dinosaur.

2.
I haven’t eaten for two days. That is probably why all of the above makes sense to me.

3.
The reason why I haven’t eaten is that I have been having a friend to stay, that I am in fact still entertaining, my old chum Klaus. He first came into my life two years ago and he likes to renew our aquaintance when I least expect it.

Klaus is a peptic ulcer. He does not approve of food, save mashed potatoes. I last heard from him last winter, just prior to a one-week food fest in all the New York brasseries of my dreams. Lucky for me, the xxx and the xxx both make a mean pomme de terre. Now, as I stood trembling on the brink of consuming my first portion of home-preserved meat, he returns. A guardian angle, or a killjoy, only time will tell.

4.
There are those, my GP among them, who belive I should talk tough to Klaus, drive him out with Losec. But the way I figure, that is hating the player, not the game.

If my body sends me signals that somethings is amiss (and by signals I mean give me a stabbing wrap your abdomen in tabasco, and set fire to your membranes kind of nod), would silencing those signals with drugs instead of combatting the cause of the pain be wise? Sure, I may feel momentarily better, but would probably wake up one fine morning to find Klaus has stuffed me down my own colon à la salsicca.

5.
If you are making an omelette, and it rains – make lemonade. I have decided to embrace Klaus. I have decided to name him my Id. Or is it super-id, the best you can be?

Klaus shows up and makes me handle the stuff I don’t want to handle, like cleaning out my closet. Then he tut-tuts at the heap of unpaid bills. Klaus shoves me out the office door at a reasonable hour, and sits with me on the tube on the way home, reminiding me to get potatoes for mash. Then Klaus lights some candles, and draws me a hot bath (a shower actually, the druggie den doesn’t stretch to a tub), and when the mash is ready, he selects a good book for me, one of those on my guilty am-sort-of-implying-have-read-already-but-haven’t-really-opened-yet list. Klaus prods me into not leaving the dishes till morning, and reminds me to call my grandmother.

For a month or so each year, we live happily together, till I am back in shape and people’s good graces. Then Klaus takes off – I hope he gets some well earned rest, in the Bahamas or somewhere.

6.
Really, there is only one die-hard disagreement between Klaus and me. It concerns swallowing. I’d like to, but Klaus won’t allow it.

I’d like to swallow small snide comments, to swallow annoyance, and I’d like to swallow great big helpings of fear, and worry. I’d like to swallow the whole of my future, including my mortage, and I would like to swallow my boss some days, and the radiator in the office always. The printer would make a nice dessert. I’d like to swallow my thighs and I’d like to swallow that divorce ten years ago and I’d very much like to swallow, once and for all, the itch to write.

But Klaus won’t let me. He makes me up-chuck, and it sprays all over the walls.

Curiosity Killed the Kitten

1.

We all remember that initial scene from Missisippi Burning. The bare wall with the two water fountains mounted, inches apart.

2.

I am allowed in many rooms where men aren’t. The abortion clinic, the places girls eat.

And I have visited, on a short visa, many of the rooms of men. I belong to a secret society or two, I have done the post boardroom sauna, and the last man standing barcrawls, and the laughs at the daft girls, and the rude gestures, and the tent backstage, and the hockey rink sideshow of hard liquor out of a flask. I have done the cursing at breakups, and the poker games that never end, and the axis and allies, and I have even been to a Bond movie.

But I have never been there without a woman in the room.

3.

A man I despise, R.Williams, ind Dead Poet’s Society, opens his ugly mouth and guaffs: the point of poetry is to seduce women. I think that may be why I do not read poetry.

Novels, on the other hand. Novels written by Men for Men, novels that are harsh and reductive of women, that are megalomaniac, suave, troutfishing in turn. Novels that reveal the male eye, and his glance in the mirror.

The text doesn’t change: once between covers it will not change, it will not change depending on who reads it. So when I stumble upon one of those many books written by Men, without regard for the female, without the scripted composure, written by Men for Men because woman was never an option: then I get to hear what is really whispered in all those rooms, that I may visit, but transform by passing the threshold.

And just like the Men of old could let their nobel hair down in texts not for the eyes of women, they must now be able to let their straggly locks down on the Internet.

If the internet is full of porn, and porn is what men like, then alas, the Internet is full of clues as to the male mind. I decided to visit a sex-site.

4.

I didn’t really know how to go about it. First of all: I was very nervous about being somehow registerd somewhere, nervous that some sort of mail would start popping up at inopportune moments, that my google would remember my serach and by some freak accident send my boss to Saucy Sal’s Emporium of Ass.

Secondly, I assumed you would have to pay to look at naked people. And that you would probably have to increase your spending relative to the explicit nature of what you are shown. Since I have spent a huge chunk of my salary this month on a smoker (bought at online aucution from monicker Gluezniffah), that meant that Saucy Sal’s hit follow up, the Cum Comglomerate, was probably out of reach.

Thirdly, from reading the papers, I have been lead to belive that there is a huge amount of sex on the internet, and that to search for something like “sex” would unleash a torrent of fleshy pics. Sifting these for what is actually representative would be difficult.

5.

I needed something cheap, not-too-offensive, and representative, in the internet-sex category. How to find it? As always when in doubt and trouble, I turned to literature.

I remembered reading a book about a real-live porn star, called Jenna, or Jemma. How to Make Love Like a Porn Star,  despite a name remnicent of macramé, turned out to be no instruction manual, but more of a morality tale. I recalled it ending happily with Jenna, or Jemma, being some sort on-line porn wholesaler, in charge of her life, her coke I presume, and her orifices. SHE would set me right: after all, I bought her book along with a carton of eggs at the supermarket  – how illicit could she be?

6.

I remember arriving at Santiago de Compostella at the end of my pilgrimage a few years ago. As I entered the great cathedral, I felt mostly let down. It was big, sure, and gaudy. But also just another church, and I did not feel holy.

7.

Having finally picked up the courage to enter the Club Jemma site, I felt very much the same as when reaching the end of my pilgrimage. Sure, things were big, and gaudy. But not in any was different enough from the trashy supplements we read over lunch in the office, that fall out, for all to see, the evening papers.

And I can’t help but wonder. Is that all there is to it, to the locked door, the lock? Behind it, you find just another episode of Sex and the City, the latest bra-campaign, the pink crazy fonts of the horoscopes, the drama of Next Top Model and the subtlety of a fishmonger. Oh, and quite a lot of dildos.

If so, men are not only degenerate pigs. They also lack a sense of humor.

Nativity Scene

1.

Someone sent me a link from the Huffington, an interview with Martin Amis, who is both a not too shabby author and the provider of proof – and yes David, even you would agree this is proof – that literacy and daftness aren’t mutually exempt. If you want the long version of the chat, you’ll have to visit, in a gesture to legal rights, the H post itself. Me, I’ll give you only the bare bones.

Mr Amis discusses a potential drawback of feminism and modern medicine: libbed women use contraceptives. Declining Notting Hill birthrates open up for a Muslim ascendancy, with their speedy breeding they may someday take advantage of democracy being essentially a numbers game and pass all sorts of hairy legislation, forcing us all to eat mutton-burgers and wear turbans instead of trilby’s. He sums up his reasoning with the instant classic: has feminism cost us Europe?

2.

For a while now, I have been noticing a shift in the gravitational force of my circle of friends. The explanation is, though scientific, visible to the naked eye. They have all gone fruitful on me, fruitful as bowls of non-alcoholic punch, but popping out, in place of soggy frozen raspberries, babies – left, right, and caesarean.

Their great big bumps have Newton spinning in his grave. All the tiny new people gestating are causing a flux-blip-vortex-black-hole-thing: sucking life as we knew it into it. Gone are the golden days of long drinks and longs chats. Gone is the collective freedom to suddenly do Belgrade, of sudden oyster madness. Gone the stuff we never did, and were probably better off not doing.

For the mamas themselves, I suppose this is all well and good. They are trading in their 20’s flapping madness – but reimbursed with charming picket suburbia. Me, on the other hand, I am getting a decidedly short end of stick: all of the curtailed nights on town and none of the sweet smelling baby blankets.

As per usual, I have no-one to blame but myself. A ten-year-and-change stint of playing the field instead of bucking down to a committed relationship, a fondness for work, and living under a bridge are lifestyle choices not conducive to baby-booming. But things being ones own fault seldom bars one from feeling regret: I would be lying if I said my kittens-not-kids future hasn’t bothered me. The chiming of my biological clock is very Nine Tailors – ringing proud and clanging changes.

3.

I was at a bookish do, one of those cleverly camouflaged evenings, ostensibly work related but really just another chance for people in the same business to hang out, throw back free drinks and bitch about the people who couldn’t be there because of pressing engagements with diaper disposals and stick-in-the-ear thermometers.

As always at these things, the lack of seating and tables together with mastery of two hands only forces you to prioritize between collecting business cards, holding glass of red, and actually getting any food inside you. And as always, this made for collection of rather squishy publisher’s spilling their venom with gusto. One woman in particular grabbed my attention: a walking advert for planned parenthood. 

37-ish, brushed but not coiffed, jauntily scarved and conservatively tailored, medium heels and with the sense to go easy on the mascara she was the very personification success. On closer inspection, it was success with dribble on her lapel, crows feet etched six feet deep, and the shaky hands of a man on the run. “Stay on the Pill” she swooshed at us, waving her chardonnay about “Kids wont ever let you think again”.

4.

I read an article the other day, on the importance of nursery rhymes in language skills development. Apparently, that importance is very great. There is something about the very naïve rhyming that works as a vaccine against dyslexia. An effect not reached by reading, for example, The Road by Cormac McCarty to the wee one, or Northanger Abby. No: The Cat Sat on the Mat is a prescription drug for toddlers. Not to Mother Goose them, but take them instead down the path of Rimbaud or even Eliot, is being as terrible a parent as, say, one who trades the tots formula for wine.

For me, this opens a whole new perspective on parenting. I never envisioned bedtime reading as a hardship, because I simply assumed that the kid would have good literary tastes. I never saw reading the same story over and over as an issue – I reread some Balzac monthly, anyway. And even if they weren’t big fans of Nabokov, they would hardly be able to voice a coherent critique, would they?

Now, faced with Science, I find that pruning the child’s mind with from-the-get-go wasabi, Cointreau and long walks in harsh winds is actually as bad as forgetting them at the butchers. I find they cannot be fed on a musical diet of Captain Beefheart and a visual diet of the off-white-and-egg-shell right away. That they need a good few years of Roses Are Red, Teletubbies and Mashed peas before being introduced to the good things of this world. I, as a parent, would have to sell all my aesthetic preferences down the river in favour of the bland, the twinkly, and the pink of their hearts desire. And given the choice between 24/7 Jack and Jill and a barren life of reading The Wasteland in peace – I am not at all sure I would go forth and populate.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Well, I bet you are all dying to know weather I am dying from sausage poisoning or not. Unfortunately, I will have to keep you in suspense:preserving meat is not a process for those who crave instant gratification. Instead, it consists of many small, slow, and arduous steps. Right now, for instance, the sausages are on the road, being transported by Cousin H to the far-away-and-deep-in-the-forest smokehouse from whence they (the sausages) will issue forth in due time - smoked and ready to eat or be eaten.

Last night did have one immediate pay-off, however. The Better Man attended the stuffing, and was so taken with the process that he went on in a visionary vein all night, discussing ingredients and possible variations on recipes. Even more than the sausage itself, he was intrigued by the many different processes of preservation, looking up hot and cold smoking, curing and drying and in fact, the last thing he said before he closed his eyes was “honey, do you know a good place to find hickory?”

Now, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I did not take this plea (this moment of weakness probably soon regretted) to heart? This plea, from a man, who’s previously to the best of my knowledge, much preferred slavering over a cold beer to slaving over a hot stove? A man, though interested in food and not a bad cook in his own right, who does consider efficiency a chief charm of cooking? Now that his eyes have been opened to the charms of the slow simmer – am I not to encourage him as he takes his first trembling steps into the slightly masochistic world of the DIY kitchen?

I got online first thing at office, and am currently bidding on a smoke-box. I envision many happy hours of swearing as the thing goes up in flames, wont burn, is upset by the cat, or singes his eyebrows. It’ll be like Three Men in A Boat, only less Thames and more pork.

Ring Out Old Shapes

I enjoy my work very much. But even Sisyphus probably found time for a quick ciggie in the afternoon. At four, I need to pour myself a cup of coffee space out for a bit. Otherwise I get cranky, and you don’t want that, seeing as sarcastic-self-righteous-bitch is my sunny side. 

 

 

Unfortunately, four o’ clock seems to be a general break time in my office. Which means that my fifteen minutes of oblivion are often interrupted by colleagues wanting to chat. As a shield against anecdotes about children’s parkas or neighbourhood watch politics (aka socializing) I have developed a ruse: staying in front of computer and pretending to be busy working. While really, I head over to the Sartorialist and FUG for a daily dosis of escapism.

 

 

These two particular sites are perfect for two reasons. First off, they let you gawk at pretty people doing petty things in pretty clothes. Secondly, all the images of perfectly tanned and toned bodies wrapped in the most minimal of sequined or gauzy sheets put an effective block on any coffee-related snacking. Such as muffins, crackers, or those delicious little toffees they sell in the cafeteria on the first floor (or so I have heard).

 

Unfortunately, the line between helpful sugar deterrent and battering ram against self-confidence is a thin (lucky bastard) one. After a weekend spent listening to the Better Man raving about the beauty of elder skinny sister and a young Pamela Anderson respectively (in all fairness, he did add as an afterthought “I do love you all the same”) – the pictures of hollow-cheeked Sienna Millers, Kiera Knightlys et al threw me into a bit of an early new years fervor. You know, the way you feel January 1 – broke, bloated and blue.

 

 

Now, as most of my female readers will know, feeling broke and bloated and blue is usually the start of a 24-48 hour all fruit but fruitless diet, after which the acute memory of whatever horrible vacation pic or old-boyfriend sighting that catapulted you into a frenzied state of half-a-cup of slimfast and skinless chicken has faded from your mind and been replaced with the smells of Bolognese from the office canteen.

 

 

But, this time, I think I have the upper hand. Heartbreak and repugnance at self are transient emotions and will only only help you shred so many pounds. A good solid case of food poisoning however, will broker no arguments. And tonight, I will be stuffing sausages. Given the 50-50 odds of them turning out edible, I think the chances of slimming down to a size zero before the lake freezes over are excellent. 

 

Oh, and hopefully you all caught the Tennyson reference – proof that though I may not be skinny, I do know my 19th centrury imperialistic poet laureates.