The blistering heat of the afternoon sun burnt layers of skin from his head, as he sat and stared into space. He didn’t mind the pain at all; in fact he welcomed it as strongly as he had once welcomed her. The pain of the sun on his head would melt the pain in his heart.
It wasn’t enough though. The searing, soul splitting, tear your head from your body and throw it into the atmosphere so that the whole world can hear you scream, agony that his shattered heart was pounding into his chest, would not be quelled.
His head was empty, his body was empty. Everything was empty.
She was gone.
His face was blank but you could see it in his eyes. Through the moisture you could see the loss. His eyes betrayed the desperation to see just once more, what once they had taken for granted. The deepest black hole in space could never compare to the depth of loss in those eyes. The eyes looked but they could not see; what is the point of sight, if she could not be seen.
A scream!
A head pounding ear splitting scream.
Not the first of the day, and probably not the last. It didn’t help at all, she couldn’t hear it. She would never hear it.
His ears failed to hear the footsteps behind him, but soon his shoulder felt the comforting hand of a friend. He needed to feel the warmth of that hand, God knows he needed it. The love of a friend would never be enough, but it was all he had.
“Come on” said the voice softly, “It’s time. You need to do this. You need to face this. I’m right here with you, all the way!”
Slowly, he got to his feet and turned. A smile was managed as he began the never ending walk back inside the house. The house was so close, but so far away. He didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to face the horrendous truth that lay within. If he saw it, then he would have to believe it. He’d have to accept that she really was never coming back.
Inside, he forced his head to rise, forced his eyes to see, finally let his brain listen to the truth.
There it was, just sitting there in front of him, the awful, terrifying, stamp your heart down and split it with an axe, truth.
Chick pea and butternut squash Korma.
He had lost her. His taste buds would no longer be mesmerised by her crispy, deep fried shredded beef taste. He silently mouthed “chick peas” and cried.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Dieting by Proxy
Yep, you guessed it I am suffering from that most depressing of syndromes.
WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome.
Or ‘Dieting by Proxy’
This is the distressing effect on a man that is caused implicitly by having a wife that is doing Weight Watchers. Life suddenly becomes just that little bit duller.
Its not just Weight Watchers of course, there are billions of variants of the dieting by proxy illness that affects us husbands. Whatever the latest diet is called though, the results are the same.
Unfortunately, an earlier agreement that seemed to make so much sense at the start of the marriage comes back to bite us on the ankles. For years we have benefitted from our wife’s skill at doing the weekly shop. Not for us men, the chore of dragging a trolley round a crowded supermarket – oh no, you enjoy yourself love! Suddenly this becomes the biggest mistake of your marital career.
Once the lady of the house is dieting – the whole house is dieting.
No way will any treats be purchased, in case our weak willed women are tempted by them. Every meal will be carefully planned in the finest detail, including portion size. This is vital so that your wife can control her intake, I accept that. I just can’t see why these women’s infamous multi tasking skills don’t apply here. Why do my portions have to be the same?
So much thought is being put into mealtimes that there are suddenly no mistakes being made, no longer will I get a text on my way home saying “We are all out of chicken, want to fetch Chinese?” No way – now we will be having something with Chick Peas in it instead.
Then there is the atmosphere to contend with.
There are two atmospheric issues to deal with.
Firstly, you suddenly have a woman running loose about the house that has not been chocolateized recently. This instantly causes tension. Should your wife be strong willed enough to continue this insane situation during her ‘special week’ then frankly you are better off spending some money on a hotel for a few days, because life would be hell at home. Even during normal days it is bad enough. Women need chocolate to make them cooperative, you can’t live in the same house as an under chocolated woman, everyone knows that.
Then there are the vegetables.
Every meal has vegetables, and where there are vegetables there is methane. It’s possible that across the globe diets are responsible for a greater release of methane than McDonald’s cows. That means that diets are causing global warming!
So I’m here, tip toeing around a walking time bomb of attitude and internal combustion, whilst coping with a distinct lack of culinary gratification.
WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome affects 1 in 3 married men in Britain, and Dieting by Proxy is the biggest cause of male depression in the world.
Bear with me readers – I’m not feeling at my best.
WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome.
Or ‘Dieting by Proxy’
This is the distressing effect on a man that is caused implicitly by having a wife that is doing Weight Watchers. Life suddenly becomes just that little bit duller.
Its not just Weight Watchers of course, there are billions of variants of the dieting by proxy illness that affects us husbands. Whatever the latest diet is called though, the results are the same.
Unfortunately, an earlier agreement that seemed to make so much sense at the start of the marriage comes back to bite us on the ankles. For years we have benefitted from our wife’s skill at doing the weekly shop. Not for us men, the chore of dragging a trolley round a crowded supermarket – oh no, you enjoy yourself love! Suddenly this becomes the biggest mistake of your marital career.
Once the lady of the house is dieting – the whole house is dieting.
No way will any treats be purchased, in case our weak willed women are tempted by them. Every meal will be carefully planned in the finest detail, including portion size. This is vital so that your wife can control her intake, I accept that. I just can’t see why these women’s infamous multi tasking skills don’t apply here. Why do my portions have to be the same?
So much thought is being put into mealtimes that there are suddenly no mistakes being made, no longer will I get a text on my way home saying “We are all out of chicken, want to fetch Chinese?” No way – now we will be having something with Chick Peas in it instead.
Then there is the atmosphere to contend with.
There are two atmospheric issues to deal with.
Firstly, you suddenly have a woman running loose about the house that has not been chocolateized recently. This instantly causes tension. Should your wife be strong willed enough to continue this insane situation during her ‘special week’ then frankly you are better off spending some money on a hotel for a few days, because life would be hell at home. Even during normal days it is bad enough. Women need chocolate to make them cooperative, you can’t live in the same house as an under chocolated woman, everyone knows that.
Then there are the vegetables.
Every meal has vegetables, and where there are vegetables there is methane. It’s possible that across the globe diets are responsible for a greater release of methane than McDonald’s cows. That means that diets are causing global warming!
So I’m here, tip toeing around a walking time bomb of attitude and internal combustion, whilst coping with a distinct lack of culinary gratification.
WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome affects 1 in 3 married men in Britain, and Dieting by Proxy is the biggest cause of male depression in the world.
Bear with me readers – I’m not feeling at my best.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Food
Chocolate
Pizza
Chips
Curry
Kebabs
Sweets
Lager
Crisps
Subway
McDonalds
KFC
Nuts
And most of all
Bacon
Will you all just leave me alone?
Pizza
Chips
Curry
Kebabs
Sweets
Lager
Crisps
Subway
McDonalds
KFC
Nuts
And most of all
Bacon
Will you all just leave me alone?
Breaking the London codes
Have the people of London forgotten their sense of humour? Have I forgotten to check if the people of London speak English? Or am I simply incredibly insensitive? I’ll let you decide.
I came out of work last night to find 6 police cars and a riot of policemen and women (is riot the correct collective noun for the police?).
They were all congregated around the end of the street, and several people had gathered to try and work out what was going on. I looked about but could see no clue.
The police were concentrated near the recycling bins and I watched as the world’s most self conscious man separated his rubbish out in front of 10 staring policemen. I immediately turned to the man that I was walking past and said “Wow, they really take recycling seriously around here don’t they?”
The look of horror this man gave me was immense. Clearly I was either about to eat, mug or have sex with him and he wasn’t too sure he liked the idea. Had I broken a code by not only catching eye contact but actually talking to a stranger on the street in London?
Was it that he just couldn’t understand English very well and had thought I’d said “Bring me your Mother – I must have her now”, this being a phrase he had attempted to memorise from his English/Bavarian dictionary?
Was he a Daily Mail reader and was simply infuriated by the accuracy of my statement? In his head, he was composing a letter to the Mail complaining about the Police State he was living in where such control was being imposed on Londoner’s recycling. I had clearly touched a nerve.
There is a small possibility that he simply didn’t think I was funny, but I refuse to accept that so I won’t give it any credence here.
The last thing I pondered, as I climbed aboard my tube train, stopped me in my tracks and made me say “OH!” I’d passed him right there hadn’t I? Was he stood around being nosey? Or…. Oh dear he was part of it wasn’t he? He wasn’t chained up so I don’t think he was guilty of anything – EVEN WORSE – that means he was the victim! I’ve just mocked somebody that was having a really bad day. This poor Bavarian lad had just witnessed a gang of ruthless London granny grabbers kidnap his mother, only to have some fat English bloke walk by laughing and demanding to have her for himself.
I put my eye contact protection device (book) down and threw caution to the wind by looking around. People dived for cover as my gaze fell on them, panic spread around the carriage as the commuters thought that someone might be trying to get their attention. Fortunately my momentary feeling of guilt passed quite quickly, and so I put my eyes back down and concentrated on reading again. The carriage relaxed.
If any of you have any other theories, please let me know.
I came out of work last night to find 6 police cars and a riot of policemen and women (is riot the correct collective noun for the police?).
They were all congregated around the end of the street, and several people had gathered to try and work out what was going on. I looked about but could see no clue.
The police were concentrated near the recycling bins and I watched as the world’s most self conscious man separated his rubbish out in front of 10 staring policemen. I immediately turned to the man that I was walking past and said “Wow, they really take recycling seriously around here don’t they?”
The look of horror this man gave me was immense. Clearly I was either about to eat, mug or have sex with him and he wasn’t too sure he liked the idea. Had I broken a code by not only catching eye contact but actually talking to a stranger on the street in London?
Was it that he just couldn’t understand English very well and had thought I’d said “Bring me your Mother – I must have her now”, this being a phrase he had attempted to memorise from his English/Bavarian dictionary?
Was he a Daily Mail reader and was simply infuriated by the accuracy of my statement? In his head, he was composing a letter to the Mail complaining about the Police State he was living in where such control was being imposed on Londoner’s recycling. I had clearly touched a nerve.
There is a small possibility that he simply didn’t think I was funny, but I refuse to accept that so I won’t give it any credence here.
The last thing I pondered, as I climbed aboard my tube train, stopped me in my tracks and made me say “OH!” I’d passed him right there hadn’t I? Was he stood around being nosey? Or…. Oh dear he was part of it wasn’t he? He wasn’t chained up so I don’t think he was guilty of anything – EVEN WORSE – that means he was the victim! I’ve just mocked somebody that was having a really bad day. This poor Bavarian lad had just witnessed a gang of ruthless London granny grabbers kidnap his mother, only to have some fat English bloke walk by laughing and demanding to have her for himself.
I put my eye contact protection device (book) down and threw caution to the wind by looking around. People dived for cover as my gaze fell on them, panic spread around the carriage as the commuters thought that someone might be trying to get their attention. Fortunately my momentary feeling of guilt passed quite quickly, and so I put my eyes back down and concentrated on reading again. The carriage relaxed.
If any of you have any other theories, please let me know.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The gerbils
This weekend we were blessed. We had guests, and the pressure was on!
Our guests were Jamie’s classroom gerbils. My 5 year old son’s school pets were finally ours for the weekend. My son has been waiting for this event all year, and has been visibly a little disappointed every Friday when he returned home empty handed. Jo and I, however, have been dreading it.
We know nothing about gerbils and from the moment it was confirmed we were having them, we started to get stressed. Can you even imagine the damage to your child’s reputation and confidence if he has to go back to school on Monday with an empty cage? He would never be forgiven and from that day on would be friendless and unable to develop socially in any way. Clearly we would have to move schools, how could we not. But we would forever be looking over our shoulders in case the skeleton came out of the closet and outs our son as the gerbil killer.
Ben 10 and Minnie-May (named by the class, in fact they are both female apparently. I’m going on what the letter said though – I didn’t check) are very cute but somewhat smelly, I can’t say I’ll be rushing out to buy one. They are also noisy. Three times I came running down the stairs carrying Daniel’s plastic baseball bat to scare off burglars, only to find out that the noise was the gerbils experimenting with their sexuality (actually though, I probably did look quite scary because my all too lose shorts kept working their way down my legs). Maybe I should have left the video camera on a tripod, I’m wondering if there is a niche market on the Internet for girl on girl gerbil porn?
Jamie came home on Friday beaming from ear to ear with pride. He was the absolute centre of attention with his peers, and was revelling in it. Daniel, on the other hand was not so impressed. Jealousy was written all over my big lad’s face as he kept hinting that the doors could accidentally fall open and then they would escape! Daniel was all mouth and no trousers though, because he was besotted by them (not that he would admit it).
I’ve spent the weekend in a state of stress. Clean their water, check their food – NO don’t feed them that! SHUT THAT DOOR! I’ve been running round keeping the outer doors shut tight in case Harry comes in and sees them, that cat would go bananas! On Sunday night I came down and noticed Minnie-May wasn’t moving. I quickly whipped her out of the cage and began CPR. I was just performing mouth to mouth when she started wriggling. I’d have been happier had Jo not chosen that exact moment to come and see what all the noise was. I’ve tried explaining but Jo just keeps showing me her hand and shaking her head. Things are quite tense, but I’m hoping we can work our way through this. It didn’t help that she saw my browsing history when I was trying to research if there was money to be made from gerbil porn.
Thankfully the pets made it through the weekend, and this morning I carried them back to school as Jamie proudly paraded me to his friends. Ben 10 was looking a little shaken by the ride, but I reckon as long as she makes it through the morning then we are in the clear.
As an aside, I’d just like to announce that if any of you read my earlier post, about when I tried to take a project management course during a nasty bout of diarrhoea, then you will no doubt be excited to hear that I re took the course earlier this month and found out today that I passed the exam. So I am now Prince2 Practitioner qualified and can manage any project you like. If you didn’t read the post then you probably don’t care about that, if this is the case then at least I hope you are enjoying the photos.
Is it OK to get excited when you see your work place on TV? Ages ago there was a TV crew, filming near my work. I never saw any of this happening; I just know they were there. Rumours went round that it was for Ashes to Ashes, the most excellent British series set in the 1980’s, following on from the even better Life on Mars. On Friday night we were sat glued to the latest episode, when suddenly they were busting some drugs on Tabernacle Street! I was ecstatic. I jumped up grabbed the remote and froze the action. There in the background was my office! Right there on TV behind Gene Hunt’s head. Jo sighed and said “When you have finished wetting yourself, do you think you could press play, as I was watching that!”
Fully reprimanded I went back to the action. Is it acceptable to find the sight of somewhere you work on TV so thrilling though? If it is, how do people who actually work in TV studios cope? If you worked on a long running soap for example would the feeling fade?
It’s no wonder celebrities do so many drugs if every time they put the TV on they see their workplace up close. Has anyone ever been to the cinema with a film star? Half way through the action do they jump up and start jabbing the screen shouting “THERE LOOK! Behind his head – that’s where I was, just there, that’s the pub we drink in! That’s amazing!” Or are they a little cooler about it?
Answers on a postcard please.
Our guests were Jamie’s classroom gerbils. My 5 year old son’s school pets were finally ours for the weekend. My son has been waiting for this event all year, and has been visibly a little disappointed every Friday when he returned home empty handed. Jo and I, however, have been dreading it.
We know nothing about gerbils and from the moment it was confirmed we were having them, we started to get stressed. Can you even imagine the damage to your child’s reputation and confidence if he has to go back to school on Monday with an empty cage? He would never be forgiven and from that day on would be friendless and unable to develop socially in any way. Clearly we would have to move schools, how could we not. But we would forever be looking over our shoulders in case the skeleton came out of the closet and outs our son as the gerbil killer.
Ben 10 and Minnie-May (named by the class, in fact they are both female apparently. I’m going on what the letter said though – I didn’t check) are very cute but somewhat smelly, I can’t say I’ll be rushing out to buy one. They are also noisy. Three times I came running down the stairs carrying Daniel’s plastic baseball bat to scare off burglars, only to find out that the noise was the gerbils experimenting with their sexuality (actually though, I probably did look quite scary because my all too lose shorts kept working their way down my legs). Maybe I should have left the video camera on a tripod, I’m wondering if there is a niche market on the Internet for girl on girl gerbil porn?
Jamie came home on Friday beaming from ear to ear with pride. He was the absolute centre of attention with his peers, and was revelling in it. Daniel, on the other hand was not so impressed. Jealousy was written all over my big lad’s face as he kept hinting that the doors could accidentally fall open and then they would escape! Daniel was all mouth and no trousers though, because he was besotted by them (not that he would admit it).
I’ve spent the weekend in a state of stress. Clean their water, check their food – NO don’t feed them that! SHUT THAT DOOR! I’ve been running round keeping the outer doors shut tight in case Harry comes in and sees them, that cat would go bananas! On Sunday night I came down and noticed Minnie-May wasn’t moving. I quickly whipped her out of the cage and began CPR. I was just performing mouth to mouth when she started wriggling. I’d have been happier had Jo not chosen that exact moment to come and see what all the noise was. I’ve tried explaining but Jo just keeps showing me her hand and shaking her head. Things are quite tense, but I’m hoping we can work our way through this. It didn’t help that she saw my browsing history when I was trying to research if there was money to be made from gerbil porn.
Thankfully the pets made it through the weekend, and this morning I carried them back to school as Jamie proudly paraded me to his friends. Ben 10 was looking a little shaken by the ride, but I reckon as long as she makes it through the morning then we are in the clear.
As an aside, I’d just like to announce that if any of you read my earlier post, about when I tried to take a project management course during a nasty bout of diarrhoea, then you will no doubt be excited to hear that I re took the course earlier this month and found out today that I passed the exam. So I am now Prince2 Practitioner qualified and can manage any project you like. If you didn’t read the post then you probably don’t care about that, if this is the case then at least I hope you are enjoying the photos.
Is it OK to get excited when you see your work place on TV? Ages ago there was a TV crew, filming near my work. I never saw any of this happening; I just know they were there. Rumours went round that it was for Ashes to Ashes, the most excellent British series set in the 1980’s, following on from the even better Life on Mars. On Friday night we were sat glued to the latest episode, when suddenly they were busting some drugs on Tabernacle Street! I was ecstatic. I jumped up grabbed the remote and froze the action. There in the background was my office! Right there on TV behind Gene Hunt’s head. Jo sighed and said “When you have finished wetting yourself, do you think you could press play, as I was watching that!”
Fully reprimanded I went back to the action. Is it acceptable to find the sight of somewhere you work on TV so thrilling though? If it is, how do people who actually work in TV studios cope? If you worked on a long running soap for example would the feeling fade?
It’s no wonder celebrities do so many drugs if every time they put the TV on they see their workplace up close. Has anyone ever been to the cinema with a film star? Half way through the action do they jump up and start jabbing the screen shouting “THERE LOOK! Behind his head – that’s where I was, just there, that’s the pub we drink in! That’s amazing!” Or are they a little cooler about it?
Answers on a postcard please.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
URGENT Medical supplies
Just a quick one tonight.
I had a laugh earlier seeing this fine example of a human plying his trade.
Something immediately made me laugh as I watched this man across the road on his phone.
I know I’m cruel, but I automatically assumed he was ordering his lunch.
What you can’t tell from my 1970’s camera phone is that his bike announces him as a medical courier. I immediately imagined some kid lying on a hospital bed desperate for a new kidney.
The kid had to wait an extra 10 minutes while Johhny McChunky ordered his Dominos.
It just made me giggle seeing him pull up, get off his bike, rest his helmet on his head and make a call that his body language hinted as being personal. Then he got back on his bike to continue his journey to drop off the kidney.
Oh I know it’s easy to laugh. I’ve been the comedy butt of so many fat jokes in my time that really I should know better, but come on. It isn’t rocket science, get the bloody kidney across London first – and then eat.
Some things make me laugh, right or wrong, and this made me laugh.
I had a laugh earlier seeing this fine example of a human plying his trade.
Something immediately made me laugh as I watched this man across the road on his phone.
I know I’m cruel, but I automatically assumed he was ordering his lunch.
What you can’t tell from my 1970’s camera phone is that his bike announces him as a medical courier. I immediately imagined some kid lying on a hospital bed desperate for a new kidney.
The kid had to wait an extra 10 minutes while Johhny McChunky ordered his Dominos.
It just made me giggle seeing him pull up, get off his bike, rest his helmet on his head and make a call that his body language hinted as being personal. Then he got back on his bike to continue his journey to drop off the kidney.
Oh I know it’s easy to laugh. I’ve been the comedy butt of so many fat jokes in my time that really I should know better, but come on. It isn’t rocket science, get the bloody kidney across London first – and then eat.
Some things make me laugh, right or wrong, and this made me laugh.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
reserving your seat
If there is one thing that really brightens up my commute, it’s a posh tourist. I seem to have sat near some tonight. There are many differences between commuters and tourists, but the thing that stands out the most is seat confidence.
The train is always full, that is a given, you always have to hunt for a seat – it’s just the way it is. Tourists will get on together at the last minute, in full expectation that they should be able to sit together, and have a bit of a picnic. Of course there is no actual reason in the world why they should not be allowed to do this, and if they arrive early enough they can.
Climb aboard a train leaving Paddington with two minutes spare though, and you had better be ready to go without.
Often, a hefty portion of the train seats are reserved so your first job is to seek out any free seats that are not. After that you gamble. Purely and simply, you enter the reserved seat lottery. At a guess I’d say that 40% of people who reserve their seats, fail to turn up, so there is always a good chance that the seat will be unclaimed by its rightful owner. Chose one – any one and sit down. Sit with confidence; this is now your seat. Don’t feel embarrassed, don’t excuse yourself to people nearby and announce loudly that this is not really your seat (because when people like me hear you, we wave our standard ticket at you, far too fast for you to read and ask you to move). Never show weakness, just sit down and start reading.
Tourists never do this, instead they make a fuss and try and hover near the seat, ready to sit in it if no one comes. The look on their face when someone else (who hasn’t reserved it either) comes and sits in it almost makes commuting worthwhile on its own. Two ladies have gone to extremes near me tonight and I’ve had the giggles ever since.
They had spotted two window seats at a table that they fancied, both of which were reserved. They tried to hover in the stalls, but as so many people (including me) were trying to get past they decided to wait in the double seat opposite. These seats were also empty but reserved. I sat myself down in a reserved seat in front of them and switched on my laptop. Meanwhile the ladies stood and loudly kept on saying how they weren’t sitting where they were unless they absolutely had too. Eventually a couple of more seasoned travellers were passing and spotted the table seats, they declared (still fairly naively) that they would sit there unless the real owners turned up and sat themselves down.
The posh ladies were gutted, tutting loudly as they sat themselves in their second choice seating. Within a minute a man turned up, speedily waved his ticket at them and asked for his seat. This was met with much debate as the ladies tried to work out what to do, eventually one of them took the seat to my right, at which the other shouted “Would you like your Gin and Tonic now then?” It was accepted.
The two seats they wanted really were never claimed. Neither was mine.
Oh my goodness I may not make it home, I might die of laughter. Two of the four people at the table got off at Reading and I have never seen such a fuss that followed this before. Instantly the posher of the two women jumped up to ask if she and her friend could squeeze in, this should have been very straight forward, two seats = two people no worries. The lady was flummoxed though, because the man had put his bag on the seat, and clearly this made things really hard for her to cope with.
Three times she asked if it was OK for her and her friend to sit, three times the man said OK. When she then asked which seats they could sit on (as in, there were two seats available but she still wanted to know which of the 4 seats they could have, this was really because she still wanted the taken window seat). Eventually the man just pointed out that he really didn’t care, but knowing full well what she was hinting at without actually asking, he stayed put. The job was still not easy though, for nearly 10 minutes she has now been leant over with her bum in my face sorting through her bag. She is getting G&T and nibbles. Meanwhile, her friend got settled into the other window seat.
As soon as she was finally settled and sat, now at a diagonal to her friend, she turned to the woman sat next to her and asked if there was any chance at all that she could maybe, I mean if it’s OK? …
The ladies are finally happy, they have their window seats. The carriage can now relax.
I can relax too, because I had no idea whatsoever what to write about tonight!
The train is always full, that is a given, you always have to hunt for a seat – it’s just the way it is. Tourists will get on together at the last minute, in full expectation that they should be able to sit together, and have a bit of a picnic. Of course there is no actual reason in the world why they should not be allowed to do this, and if they arrive early enough they can.
Climb aboard a train leaving Paddington with two minutes spare though, and you had better be ready to go without.
Often, a hefty portion of the train seats are reserved so your first job is to seek out any free seats that are not. After that you gamble. Purely and simply, you enter the reserved seat lottery. At a guess I’d say that 40% of people who reserve their seats, fail to turn up, so there is always a good chance that the seat will be unclaimed by its rightful owner. Chose one – any one and sit down. Sit with confidence; this is now your seat. Don’t feel embarrassed, don’t excuse yourself to people nearby and announce loudly that this is not really your seat (because when people like me hear you, we wave our standard ticket at you, far too fast for you to read and ask you to move). Never show weakness, just sit down and start reading.
Tourists never do this, instead they make a fuss and try and hover near the seat, ready to sit in it if no one comes. The look on their face when someone else (who hasn’t reserved it either) comes and sits in it almost makes commuting worthwhile on its own. Two ladies have gone to extremes near me tonight and I’ve had the giggles ever since.
They had spotted two window seats at a table that they fancied, both of which were reserved. They tried to hover in the stalls, but as so many people (including me) were trying to get past they decided to wait in the double seat opposite. These seats were also empty but reserved. I sat myself down in a reserved seat in front of them and switched on my laptop. Meanwhile the ladies stood and loudly kept on saying how they weren’t sitting where they were unless they absolutely had too. Eventually a couple of more seasoned travellers were passing and spotted the table seats, they declared (still fairly naively) that they would sit there unless the real owners turned up and sat themselves down.
The posh ladies were gutted, tutting loudly as they sat themselves in their second choice seating. Within a minute a man turned up, speedily waved his ticket at them and asked for his seat. This was met with much debate as the ladies tried to work out what to do, eventually one of them took the seat to my right, at which the other shouted “Would you like your Gin and Tonic now then?” It was accepted.
The two seats they wanted really were never claimed. Neither was mine.
Oh my goodness I may not make it home, I might die of laughter. Two of the four people at the table got off at Reading and I have never seen such a fuss that followed this before. Instantly the posher of the two women jumped up to ask if she and her friend could squeeze in, this should have been very straight forward, two seats = two people no worries. The lady was flummoxed though, because the man had put his bag on the seat, and clearly this made things really hard for her to cope with.
Three times she asked if it was OK for her and her friend to sit, three times the man said OK. When she then asked which seats they could sit on (as in, there were two seats available but she still wanted to know which of the 4 seats they could have, this was really because she still wanted the taken window seat). Eventually the man just pointed out that he really didn’t care, but knowing full well what she was hinting at without actually asking, he stayed put. The job was still not easy though, for nearly 10 minutes she has now been leant over with her bum in my face sorting through her bag. She is getting G&T and nibbles. Meanwhile, her friend got settled into the other window seat.
As soon as she was finally settled and sat, now at a diagonal to her friend, she turned to the woman sat next to her and asked if there was any chance at all that she could maybe, I mean if it’s OK? …
The ladies are finally happy, they have their window seats. The carriage can now relax.
I can relax too, because I had no idea whatsoever what to write about tonight!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The netball girls
I’ve been let down by society. Actually I should be more specific, I’ve been let down by Hollywood. Society can’t help being led by the film industry; it is in its nature. So the blame lands firmly on the film industry. Whose ever fault it is though, they have let me down and I’m not sure I can forgive them.
Saturday night should, theoretically, have been amazing. I should be writing this with a fixed smile on my face that just won’t disappear. It wasn’t, and I’m not.
Jo had her netball team mates round for Tapas and wine.
A total of 8 hot ladies were all sat around drinking and chatting in my house.
I’ve seen a lot of films in my time – I know the rules, I know what should happen. I smiled happily as I walked in the house with the boys. I’d taken them away to Pizza Express for their tea in order to keep them out of the way, and stop them making mess while Jo got ready. When we returned the ladies were already sitting with their Tapas and the wine was flowing. I rubbed my hands together and left them to it. I put the boys to bed and then sat and wrote about Le Manoir, as well as some other things. Jo didn’t want me hanging about spoiling things on her “night out at home”, quite rightly, so I stayed out of the way. I knew that I simply had to wait…
I looked at the clock and it was nearly midnight, I decided that this was the perfect time. Things had gone a little quiet downstairs and so surely I was right.
At a party like this there are very strict rules, according to the films I watch on the Movies for Men channel. The women would have expended all the different conversations about jewellery, netball, useless men, who they know who is fat, who they know who is skinny and which type of chocolate they can’t manage without (don’t be scared ladies, I realise that hearing such an accurate depiction of your conversations from a straight man is unnerving). The party wasn’t advertised as a sleep over so I had been able to rule out the pyjama pillow fight, which usually happens at these parties. Nobody knows why women at a sleep over always have a pillow fight in their pyjamas, they just do.
Which meant only one thing; one of the party must surely have mentioned that her boobs weren’t as firm as she would like. This would have sparked a whole conversation about boob firmness. In two blinks of an eye, all the tops would have been removed so that they could compare. All I had to do was walk in carrying a pizza, and the rest would be a blur.
Nothing could go wrong, the theory was faultless.
I took the pizza out of my bag that I had hidden on my return from Pizza Express, unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt and put my tightest jeans on. Slowly I crept down the stairs, the magic would not work if they heard me coming and had time to put their tops back on.
I steadied myself at the lounge door, this was my moment – it had finally arrived, on the other side of this door were 8 hot women comparing boobs that would automatically expect the pizza delivery man to join in, I could barely contain myself.
I tried to open the door carefully, but because this action broke the vacuum inside, the door slammed open at speed, shaking the house. Any man who has ever had to sit at a table with two or more women will understand that women talk to each other at a completely different pace to how they speak to us. Air gets soaked up through gills, because they don’t seem to need to breathe. The conversation between the man and the women will be moving at about 2 words a second, everyone will appear to be breathing. Suddenly the ladies will start talking to each other about something they know the man is not part of. The chat speeds up to 50 words a second, no breathing appears to take place. The man sat at the table moves his head from side to side trying to keep up, but no words are going in, he has literally no idea what they are saying. Then he starts to get a little dizzy, women’s chatting gills suck in air like a whale preparing for a really deep dive to fuel their endless gossip output.
Women cannot break out of this chat zone until they decide they are ready – no amount of attempts by the man to join in will be heard, he just sits there saying half words over and over in what he thinks are natural pauses in the conversation, but aren’t. Eventually the man will tire of waiting and pick up his empty glass, giving it a shake while pointing at the bar in a questioning way. Undoubtedly the ladies will completely misread his request for one of them to go and fetch him a beer, and instead will perform one of those mysterious genetic tricks that only females can do.
Without breaking their pace or losing their thread in the conversation they will pick up their glass and shake it back at you, nodding and mouthing “same again”! The manner in which they can mouth a sentence at you at 2 words a second while still talking to their friend at 20, like some badly dubbed foreign film, scares you so much that you gingerly tip toe away and get the round in – again.
Multiply that effect by 8 and you can understand why it was that if I hadn’t opened the door at that time or at least within the next minute, all 8 ladies would have been suffocated. Apparently ‘Female Asphyxiation from Talking’ (F.A.T.) is a known syndrome that kills 20 women in Europe every year.
The inrush of air into the lounge threw me inside at an unexpected pace, how I managed not to drop the pizza, I will never know. Clumsily, I regained my composure and looked around. 15 eyes looked over at me (ok, one of them was a little less hot than the rest, either that or she had been told it was fancy dress and had come as a pirate).
The first thing that I noticed was that none of them were naked. The second was that none of them looked excited to see me. How could this be? What had gone wrong with my plan?
“What do you want?” asked Jo, her tone suggesting it had better not be very much, “and what on Earth are you doing with that pizza? We’ve all had Tapas!”
I stammered and paused for far too long, because the momentary break in their conversation was over; fuelled by the fresh supply of oxygen, the ladies went back to talking at each other. I waved the pizza, no reaction. I waved my hips, no reaction. I asked if everyone was happy with the fitting of their bras, no reaction. My moment had gone and I had well and truly missed it.
Had I come down too early? Surely not, I’m certain the timing was right. The simple fact is that I am going to have to accept that everything I have learned on late night TV is a lie.
I have written a complaint to Google, I think they should know that the videos that are suggested when you search on ‘netball all girls drinking party’ are completely false and misleading. What exactly is supposed to be sexy about a group of women just sat about talking about how crap men are, if that isn’t going to lead into anything with shopping mall music in the background?
I threw the pizza in the kitchen and went off to bed in a huff. It was late and I was tired and emotionally ruined, so it didn’t take me long to get to sleep.
The next day Jo informed me that they had all decided to go away for a weekend. I have to say that I’m now really devastated. Staying away, means sharing rooms and pyjamas, as well as a big supply of pillows. Also, I know for a fact that you can get pizza delivered to the villas at the place they are going to. I accept now that boob measurement at a normal party is a myth, but no group of women can resist the pillow fight can they? They are bound to get hungry after the pillow fighting too, and some other lucky git is going to reap the reward!
If only I was a real pizza delivery man, of what a life I would lead!
Saturday night should, theoretically, have been amazing. I should be writing this with a fixed smile on my face that just won’t disappear. It wasn’t, and I’m not.
Jo had her netball team mates round for Tapas and wine.
A total of 8 hot ladies were all sat around drinking and chatting in my house.
I’ve seen a lot of films in my time – I know the rules, I know what should happen. I smiled happily as I walked in the house with the boys. I’d taken them away to Pizza Express for their tea in order to keep them out of the way, and stop them making mess while Jo got ready. When we returned the ladies were already sitting with their Tapas and the wine was flowing. I rubbed my hands together and left them to it. I put the boys to bed and then sat and wrote about Le Manoir, as well as some other things. Jo didn’t want me hanging about spoiling things on her “night out at home”, quite rightly, so I stayed out of the way. I knew that I simply had to wait…
I looked at the clock and it was nearly midnight, I decided that this was the perfect time. Things had gone a little quiet downstairs and so surely I was right.
At a party like this there are very strict rules, according to the films I watch on the Movies for Men channel. The women would have expended all the different conversations about jewellery, netball, useless men, who they know who is fat, who they know who is skinny and which type of chocolate they can’t manage without (don’t be scared ladies, I realise that hearing such an accurate depiction of your conversations from a straight man is unnerving). The party wasn’t advertised as a sleep over so I had been able to rule out the pyjama pillow fight, which usually happens at these parties. Nobody knows why women at a sleep over always have a pillow fight in their pyjamas, they just do.
Which meant only one thing; one of the party must surely have mentioned that her boobs weren’t as firm as she would like. This would have sparked a whole conversation about boob firmness. In two blinks of an eye, all the tops would have been removed so that they could compare. All I had to do was walk in carrying a pizza, and the rest would be a blur.
Nothing could go wrong, the theory was faultless.
I took the pizza out of my bag that I had hidden on my return from Pizza Express, unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt and put my tightest jeans on. Slowly I crept down the stairs, the magic would not work if they heard me coming and had time to put their tops back on.
I steadied myself at the lounge door, this was my moment – it had finally arrived, on the other side of this door were 8 hot women comparing boobs that would automatically expect the pizza delivery man to join in, I could barely contain myself.
I tried to open the door carefully, but because this action broke the vacuum inside, the door slammed open at speed, shaking the house. Any man who has ever had to sit at a table with two or more women will understand that women talk to each other at a completely different pace to how they speak to us. Air gets soaked up through gills, because they don’t seem to need to breathe. The conversation between the man and the women will be moving at about 2 words a second, everyone will appear to be breathing. Suddenly the ladies will start talking to each other about something they know the man is not part of. The chat speeds up to 50 words a second, no breathing appears to take place. The man sat at the table moves his head from side to side trying to keep up, but no words are going in, he has literally no idea what they are saying. Then he starts to get a little dizzy, women’s chatting gills suck in air like a whale preparing for a really deep dive to fuel their endless gossip output.
Women cannot break out of this chat zone until they decide they are ready – no amount of attempts by the man to join in will be heard, he just sits there saying half words over and over in what he thinks are natural pauses in the conversation, but aren’t. Eventually the man will tire of waiting and pick up his empty glass, giving it a shake while pointing at the bar in a questioning way. Undoubtedly the ladies will completely misread his request for one of them to go and fetch him a beer, and instead will perform one of those mysterious genetic tricks that only females can do.
Without breaking their pace or losing their thread in the conversation they will pick up their glass and shake it back at you, nodding and mouthing “same again”! The manner in which they can mouth a sentence at you at 2 words a second while still talking to their friend at 20, like some badly dubbed foreign film, scares you so much that you gingerly tip toe away and get the round in – again.
Multiply that effect by 8 and you can understand why it was that if I hadn’t opened the door at that time or at least within the next minute, all 8 ladies would have been suffocated. Apparently ‘Female Asphyxiation from Talking’ (F.A.T.) is a known syndrome that kills 20 women in Europe every year.
The inrush of air into the lounge threw me inside at an unexpected pace, how I managed not to drop the pizza, I will never know. Clumsily, I regained my composure and looked around. 15 eyes looked over at me (ok, one of them was a little less hot than the rest, either that or she had been told it was fancy dress and had come as a pirate).
The first thing that I noticed was that none of them were naked. The second was that none of them looked excited to see me. How could this be? What had gone wrong with my plan?
“What do you want?” asked Jo, her tone suggesting it had better not be very much, “and what on Earth are you doing with that pizza? We’ve all had Tapas!”
I stammered and paused for far too long, because the momentary break in their conversation was over; fuelled by the fresh supply of oxygen, the ladies went back to talking at each other. I waved the pizza, no reaction. I waved my hips, no reaction. I asked if everyone was happy with the fitting of their bras, no reaction. My moment had gone and I had well and truly missed it.
Had I come down too early? Surely not, I’m certain the timing was right. The simple fact is that I am going to have to accept that everything I have learned on late night TV is a lie.
I have written a complaint to Google, I think they should know that the videos that are suggested when you search on ‘netball all girls drinking party’ are completely false and misleading. What exactly is supposed to be sexy about a group of women just sat about talking about how crap men are, if that isn’t going to lead into anything with shopping mall music in the background?
I threw the pizza in the kitchen and went off to bed in a huff. It was late and I was tired and emotionally ruined, so it didn’t take me long to get to sleep.
The next day Jo informed me that they had all decided to go away for a weekend. I have to say that I’m now really devastated. Staying away, means sharing rooms and pyjamas, as well as a big supply of pillows. Also, I know for a fact that you can get pizza delivered to the villas at the place they are going to. I accept now that boob measurement at a normal party is a myth, but no group of women can resist the pillow fight can they? They are bound to get hungry after the pillow fighting too, and some other lucky git is going to reap the reward!
If only I was a real pizza delivery man, of what a life I would lead!
Monday, April 19, 2010
The big vote Britain 2010
And so the debate goes on…
A short while ago I asked the Internet a question. I don’t mean I Googled “How Many types of potato are there?” although I did do that, but it’s not relevant right now. I didn’t Ask Jeeves where I can find a plumber – no.
I did so much more than that.
I literally asked the Internet a question!
Not a trivial, wishy-washy question either, but a full on life changing, opinion forming conundrum.
It started with my post the other day about hiring a band for my birthday. In my head it re opened an age old debate that I have been unable to resolve for years.
Who is sexiest 1970’s / 80’s songstress – Kate Bush or Debbie Harry?
I fancied both of these women with a passion when I was a kid, and never could decide. Debbie jumps out immediately of course, due to her straight forward beauty being mixed with good old fashioned dirtiness. Blondie were a fantastic group, their music will be remembered and played for ever. How could any man my age NOT have had a crush on Debbie Harry? (Unless they had one on Fergal Sharkey of course)
As Glen over at Lights 2 Flag recently pointed out “Kate Bush was madder than a bag of frogs” so a lot of people have never really understood my crush on Kate. But for me that madness was part of it. She was (probably still is) a stunningly beautiful woman, and how could anyone in the world not have been excited by her Babooshka costume? (Even the Fergal fans like sequins)
Not knowing what Kate was going to do next, added to the fun. Let’s face it, she was a very sexy, very talented nut case.
I asked this question on an online forum, and have been totally underwhelmed by the lack of response. I asked the entire world, and have so far had three responses – all in support of Debbie. Surely there has to be someone else out there who favours a bit of Kate?
If this is not the case, if I get even more votes for Debbie, then fair enough – I suppose I will have to take that as my choice. I suppose it is a good thing, at least I will be prepared in the unlikely scenario that the two ladies corner me in a bar and demand to know which one I want first. Without conducting this survey I might dither, and whilst I’m trying to choose they will wander off, having lost interest and take George Clooney home instead.
So for the last time I’m asking again – Kate or Debbie ?
THEN
NOW
THEN
NOW
Images from the lovely Google Images
A short while ago I asked the Internet a question. I don’t mean I Googled “How Many types of potato are there?” although I did do that, but it’s not relevant right now. I didn’t Ask Jeeves where I can find a plumber – no.
I did so much more than that.
I literally asked the Internet a question!
Not a trivial, wishy-washy question either, but a full on life changing, opinion forming conundrum.
It started with my post the other day about hiring a band for my birthday. In my head it re opened an age old debate that I have been unable to resolve for years.
Who is sexiest 1970’s / 80’s songstress – Kate Bush or Debbie Harry?
I fancied both of these women with a passion when I was a kid, and never could decide. Debbie jumps out immediately of course, due to her straight forward beauty being mixed with good old fashioned dirtiness. Blondie were a fantastic group, their music will be remembered and played for ever. How could any man my age NOT have had a crush on Debbie Harry? (Unless they had one on Fergal Sharkey of course)
As Glen over at Lights 2 Flag recently pointed out “Kate Bush was madder than a bag of frogs” so a lot of people have never really understood my crush on Kate. But for me that madness was part of it. She was (probably still is) a stunningly beautiful woman, and how could anyone in the world not have been excited by her Babooshka costume? (Even the Fergal fans like sequins)
Not knowing what Kate was going to do next, added to the fun. Let’s face it, she was a very sexy, very talented nut case.
I asked this question on an online forum, and have been totally underwhelmed by the lack of response. I asked the entire world, and have so far had three responses – all in support of Debbie. Surely there has to be someone else out there who favours a bit of Kate?
If this is not the case, if I get even more votes for Debbie, then fair enough – I suppose I will have to take that as my choice. I suppose it is a good thing, at least I will be prepared in the unlikely scenario that the two ladies corner me in a bar and demand to know which one I want first. Without conducting this survey I might dither, and whilst I’m trying to choose they will wander off, having lost interest and take George Clooney home instead.
So for the last time I’m asking again – Kate or Debbie ?
THEN
NOW
THEN
NOW
Images from the lovely Google Images
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Le Manoir Aux Quat’ Saisons
Le Manoir Aux Quat’ Saisons is the two Michelin starred restaurant of the celebrity chef Raymond Blanc, or Ray White as he apparently prefers to be known.
Situated in the heart of lovely Oxfordshire half an hour away from where we live, we have so often passed it on our way to eat at Harvester, Beefeater or McDonalds, always dreaming that “One day…”
“One day” came this week.
A present we got at Christmas was for a three course lunch at this famous greasy spoon. How lucky are we? Jo was beside herself with excitement, which left her wide open for abuse. I told her that when I booked it everything had been going well on the phone until I’d mentioned the voucher, at which point the lady had sighed disapprovingly and passed me on to “the voucher reception” where someone briskly answered “What?” and then “Yeah we can fit you in easy – do you want to sit together though?”
None of this happened of course, but Jo could never fully decide if I was telling the truth. I told her we were in the special ‘voucher room’, where they put the poor people, so that they don’t spoil it for the real guests. Our ‘Menu de Jour’ would probably consist of a secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices and if we pay extra we could go large.
Jo’s friend had been there once when Ray was having a walk about the place, he had asked them if they were having a special occasion and as soon as she had said it was her 30th birthday, the chef had immediately ordered champagne for them on the house. This story was keeping Jo awake at night. In her head she had a whole conversation worked out that was definitely going to occur. Raymond was practically going to pull up a chair and invite her round to his house for dinner, and perhaps some good old fashioned French loving (is how she thought he would have put it). I was asked what I would ask this man should he come to our table, I dismissed asking if he would take Jo away from me and I plumped for “Can I have some ketchup?” purely because I decided that asking a top chef in his restaurant to fetch some ketchup would be good material for this blog.
All drinks would be extra on the bill and from the offset, Jo set her stall out. I was not allowed to be tight. We were having wine and I was not allowed to ask straight away for the “House” as I am occasionally guilty of doing. I joked with her that I’d already sorted it, because when I booked the table I’d asked and discovered that they only charged £5 for corkage, so I’d been to Tesco and stocked up on two bottles of fine Welsh Pinot Grigio, which had been on buy one get one free so I’d only spent £3. I reckoned spending a total of £13 on wine for a special occasion like this was fair enough, although to be honest they have a cheek don’t they? £5 for uncorking a bottle of wine is a right rip off, especially when they are screw tops and I could do it myself. Jo laughed nervously, she is never 100% sure if I’m joking or not.
Jo could relax though – I was quickly put in my place. The day before the meal, the restaurant phoned to confirm the booking, or at least try and talk us out of it after seeing that we lived in Didcot and would probably be turning up in tracksuits or something. Any way the very nice lady asked me if I’d like champagne when we arrived, in such a friendly welcoming way that immediately made you think that she wouldn’t dream of accepting money for this. I knew of course that she would want money for it, and probably quite a lot, my head screamed at me to ask how much it would be, but all I could picture was Jo’s disappointed face when she heard me shouting “How much did you say? For two glasses? No thanks – I’ll stick with iced tap water”. So I meekly replied “Yes please” and left it at that.
We arrived at the restaurant and it was stunningly beautiful. The manner house and the gardens were immaculate. We were smoothly moved through to some comfy seats, provided with Champagne and given some books to read. The books turned out to be the menu and wine list. The menu was explained to us so that we didn’t try and foolishly order anything that the real guests were allowed. Our Menu de Jour was clear and looked very nice indeed. Personally I wasn’t too inspired by the starters, but only because I don’t like Frois Gras pate (or any kind of pate) and the chicken with egg seemed an unusual choice. As it was the chicken and egg were perfectly cooked and tasty and I was even surprised to find that I didn’t hate Jo’s Frois Gras, which Jo absolutely loved.
Meanwhile, back at the sofa, I had picked up the wine list, slammed it back on the table and declared that there had been a mistake. The Sommelier struggled to comprehend my request for him to pop out to Odbins and fetch me a bottle of Lambrusco. His French accent just got heavier as he attempted to explain that “perhaps Monsieur would be more comfortable at McDonalds? – I believe they do quite a nice milkshake!” In the end he accepted my request to bring out the cheapest bottle they have, what ever that might be.
We were lovingly introduced to some canap̩s, although the wavering faux French accent made it a little hard to work out what they actually were. It seems Raymond has staffed his Oxfordshire restaurant with only French people. Every single person we encountered had a French accent, some more convincingly than others. Whatever the canap̩s were, they were absolutely delicious Рedible porn.
Now seated at our table we were introduced to chef’s Amuse-Bouche, don’t ask me what that means, ask Google, in practice what it meant today was a stunningly tasty garlic and potato soup in an espresso cup which I would have loved as a full portion. Bread was given and after Jo had sent back the bottle of cider that the sommelier had chosen for us, with a very un-ladylike kick of my shins, we were given a bottle of Pinot Grigio that was very nice indeed.
The lamb main course was superb, as was the pudding. Jo had the chocolate tart and I had a pudding called “pudding on a theme, the theme is Lemon” but all written in curly writing. I can report that the theme did not stay on my plate long at all – I received another shin kick just as I was about to lick the plate clean.
For me the experience was a little too smooth and rehearsed. I’ve been to countless restaurants with my boys and after the initial panic of getting the garlic bread on order as you walk in the door (that bread needs to land on the table within 1 minute of getting the boys coat’s off or all hell breaks loose), you want food bringing out as fast as possible. If you go out for a posh romantic lunch without the kids you want to relax, take your time and chat. Everything was so well done that there never seemed to be any quiet time. Each course came out perfectly and was mixed with drinks being poured and bread being offered at all times. This is the perfect place to come with kids – this doesn’t make sense but it is true. I would take my boys there and really enjoy it because they would have no chance to ever get stressed. I never really felt like it was suited to young couples though. We did feel quite young compared to the other diners. I should stress that we were in the middle of rural Oxfordshire on a weekday afternoon in an expensive restaurant, who else but retirees could afford to be there? Except for people who have consolidated all their loans and sold their gold, or had big payouts after their boss had given them the wrong ladder to clean windows with, most people my age were at work.
We were introduced to some lovely petit fours with coffee, I gave them my number but they haven’t phoned. Then we had a walk around the grounds which were immaculate, and took some photos.
All in all it was a smashing afternoon. The rest of my week was very busy indeed revising for an exam and taking it (I’ll find out in a few weeks if I passed) so I’m afraid I have somewhat neglected my blog life. These things happen. I barely had chance to acknowledge the fact that my first ever post on Real Bloggers United came out this week, except for a tiny bit of a response I had to let it pass by, so please go and have a read if you haven’t already as it’s all about how I met Jo.
I hope you all had a nice Easter (should you celebrate it).
Situated in the heart of lovely Oxfordshire half an hour away from where we live, we have so often passed it on our way to eat at Harvester, Beefeater or McDonalds, always dreaming that “One day…”
“One day” came this week.
A present we got at Christmas was for a three course lunch at this famous greasy spoon. How lucky are we? Jo was beside herself with excitement, which left her wide open for abuse. I told her that when I booked it everything had been going well on the phone until I’d mentioned the voucher, at which point the lady had sighed disapprovingly and passed me on to “the voucher reception” where someone briskly answered “What?” and then “Yeah we can fit you in easy – do you want to sit together though?”
None of this happened of course, but Jo could never fully decide if I was telling the truth. I told her we were in the special ‘voucher room’, where they put the poor people, so that they don’t spoil it for the real guests. Our ‘Menu de Jour’ would probably consist of a secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices and if we pay extra we could go large.
Jo’s friend had been there once when Ray was having a walk about the place, he had asked them if they were having a special occasion and as soon as she had said it was her 30th birthday, the chef had immediately ordered champagne for them on the house. This story was keeping Jo awake at night. In her head she had a whole conversation worked out that was definitely going to occur. Raymond was practically going to pull up a chair and invite her round to his house for dinner, and perhaps some good old fashioned French loving (is how she thought he would have put it). I was asked what I would ask this man should he come to our table, I dismissed asking if he would take Jo away from me and I plumped for “Can I have some ketchup?” purely because I decided that asking a top chef in his restaurant to fetch some ketchup would be good material for this blog.
All drinks would be extra on the bill and from the offset, Jo set her stall out. I was not allowed to be tight. We were having wine and I was not allowed to ask straight away for the “House” as I am occasionally guilty of doing. I joked with her that I’d already sorted it, because when I booked the table I’d asked and discovered that they only charged £5 for corkage, so I’d been to Tesco and stocked up on two bottles of fine Welsh Pinot Grigio, which had been on buy one get one free so I’d only spent £3. I reckoned spending a total of £13 on wine for a special occasion like this was fair enough, although to be honest they have a cheek don’t they? £5 for uncorking a bottle of wine is a right rip off, especially when they are screw tops and I could do it myself. Jo laughed nervously, she is never 100% sure if I’m joking or not.
Jo could relax though – I was quickly put in my place. The day before the meal, the restaurant phoned to confirm the booking, or at least try and talk us out of it after seeing that we lived in Didcot and would probably be turning up in tracksuits or something. Any way the very nice lady asked me if I’d like champagne when we arrived, in such a friendly welcoming way that immediately made you think that she wouldn’t dream of accepting money for this. I knew of course that she would want money for it, and probably quite a lot, my head screamed at me to ask how much it would be, but all I could picture was Jo’s disappointed face when she heard me shouting “How much did you say? For two glasses? No thanks – I’ll stick with iced tap water”. So I meekly replied “Yes please” and left it at that.
We arrived at the restaurant and it was stunningly beautiful. The manner house and the gardens were immaculate. We were smoothly moved through to some comfy seats, provided with Champagne and given some books to read. The books turned out to be the menu and wine list. The menu was explained to us so that we didn’t try and foolishly order anything that the real guests were allowed. Our Menu de Jour was clear and looked very nice indeed. Personally I wasn’t too inspired by the starters, but only because I don’t like Frois Gras pate (or any kind of pate) and the chicken with egg seemed an unusual choice. As it was the chicken and egg were perfectly cooked and tasty and I was even surprised to find that I didn’t hate Jo’s Frois Gras, which Jo absolutely loved.
Meanwhile, back at the sofa, I had picked up the wine list, slammed it back on the table and declared that there had been a mistake. The Sommelier struggled to comprehend my request for him to pop out to Odbins and fetch me a bottle of Lambrusco. His French accent just got heavier as he attempted to explain that “perhaps Monsieur would be more comfortable at McDonalds? – I believe they do quite a nice milkshake!” In the end he accepted my request to bring out the cheapest bottle they have, what ever that might be.
We were lovingly introduced to some canap̩s, although the wavering faux French accent made it a little hard to work out what they actually were. It seems Raymond has staffed his Oxfordshire restaurant with only French people. Every single person we encountered had a French accent, some more convincingly than others. Whatever the canap̩s were, they were absolutely delicious Рedible porn.
Now seated at our table we were introduced to chef’s Amuse-Bouche, don’t ask me what that means, ask Google, in practice what it meant today was a stunningly tasty garlic and potato soup in an espresso cup which I would have loved as a full portion. Bread was given and after Jo had sent back the bottle of cider that the sommelier had chosen for us, with a very un-ladylike kick of my shins, we were given a bottle of Pinot Grigio that was very nice indeed.
The lamb main course was superb, as was the pudding. Jo had the chocolate tart and I had a pudding called “pudding on a theme, the theme is Lemon” but all written in curly writing. I can report that the theme did not stay on my plate long at all – I received another shin kick just as I was about to lick the plate clean.
For me the experience was a little too smooth and rehearsed. I’ve been to countless restaurants with my boys and after the initial panic of getting the garlic bread on order as you walk in the door (that bread needs to land on the table within 1 minute of getting the boys coat’s off or all hell breaks loose), you want food bringing out as fast as possible. If you go out for a posh romantic lunch without the kids you want to relax, take your time and chat. Everything was so well done that there never seemed to be any quiet time. Each course came out perfectly and was mixed with drinks being poured and bread being offered at all times. This is the perfect place to come with kids – this doesn’t make sense but it is true. I would take my boys there and really enjoy it because they would have no chance to ever get stressed. I never really felt like it was suited to young couples though. We did feel quite young compared to the other diners. I should stress that we were in the middle of rural Oxfordshire on a weekday afternoon in an expensive restaurant, who else but retirees could afford to be there? Except for people who have consolidated all their loans and sold their gold, or had big payouts after their boss had given them the wrong ladder to clean windows with, most people my age were at work.
We were introduced to some lovely petit fours with coffee, I gave them my number but they haven’t phoned. Then we had a walk around the grounds which were immaculate, and took some photos.
All in all it was a smashing afternoon. The rest of my week was very busy indeed revising for an exam and taking it (I’ll find out in a few weeks if I passed) so I’m afraid I have somewhat neglected my blog life. These things happen. I barely had chance to acknowledge the fact that my first ever post on Real Bloggers United came out this week, except for a tiny bit of a response I had to let it pass by, so please go and have a read if you haven’t already as it’s all about how I met Jo.
I hope you all had a nice Easter (should you celebrate it).
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Totally addicted to bass
I had one of those moments of utter clarity yesterday. I could see clearly in full 1080p HD, the difference between men and women.
I shook my fists at the ceiling and shouted “KHAAAAAN!” Sorry, I am a Star Trek nerd, I tend to re enact William Shatner’s finest acting moment from Star Trek 2 in times of despair. Actually if I am honest, I think Bill’s acting may have peaked in T.J. Hooker, there was one scene in that where I recall he managed to make his hair go from straight to wavy, to straight, back to curly and even at one point to kind of an Afro, during one chase & fight scene – now that’s acting.
Why did Uhura have poo on her head? Because William Shatner.
Couldn’t resist wiping the dust of that old beauty – sorry.
My speakers arrived.
These are no ordinary speakers.
No way, these are Logitech and they are, quite literally, audio porn. Logitech Z-5500 5.1 channel amplifier system. The first thing I said when I opened the box was “Oh crap!” the subwoofer is as big as a car! I looked out the window – Jo was still out with the boys. I didn’t know how much time I had, but I knew I had to get this system set up and working, with the subwoofer somehow hidden away, before they were back. If Jo saw this huge box lying around before she heard it there would be no way I’d be allowed to keep it.
I set to work, speedily pulling out the TV stand and rearranging the whole set up to include my new toy. I had to completely remove the old VHS recorder, we never use that anymore anyway. I cut some fast holes in the back of the stand and poked wires through.
Very quickly indeed, the job was done.
I turned it on and then had to run very quickly to change my trousers. This is the Sandra Bullock of home entertainment.
I’d very nearly got everything finished and tidied away when Jo returned.
No matter how many different devices I played through it, however many different tweaks on the settings, Jo just sat there nodding and saying “yes, it’s quite good”, QUITE?
Next Jo screwed her nose up, as I put her favourite DVD on (Mama Mia) “I don’t like the base – can you turn it down? Why is the TV stood so far out from the wall, have you not put it all the way back in or something?”
I turned the base down, then a little more. Jo’s nose remained screwed up, so I turned it down some more. When this system was suggested to me, I was also advised to buy some fuses because when you “turn this bad boy right up it will blow the fuse”. Luckily I ignored this advice; there is no way I’m ever going to be in danger of blowing any fuses. In despair I looked at the display and noted that I only had one bar left on the subwoofer – and still Jo was complaining of over exposure to bass. I pointed out that the reason her nose was now pressed up to the TV was because there was a box big enough to sleep in behind the stand. I declared that this state of the art piece of craftsmanship was currently crying, desperate to be heard but in pain at the level of restraint she was forcing upon it. Jo, however, had stopped listening in the way that she always does when I try and explain anything remotely gadget based to her.
Later on, with the kids tucked up in bed I decided that we had a good sound system now, so it was time to watch a good film. I had been saving Slumdog Millionaire for a while after Jo had ‘taped’ it from the TV at Christmas. I knew Slumdog is supposed to be a decent film with a good soundtrack. I sighed as I remembered about the film, because it took me 20 minutes to go out to the garage, retrieve the VHS and plug it back in with Jo helpfully heckling me. Then I sighed again when I finally remembered that when Jo says she has ‘taped’ something, she actually means she has recorded it on Sky+.
Even Jo had to admit that it sounded great, and by the way, “decent film” does not do it any justice at all, it is a brilliant film. Admittedly some of the plaster fell off the ceiling due to the bass and at one point Daniel came down to ask if we could turn it down a bit. Jo and I spent the rest of the film giggling due to the fact that when I paused the film to talk to Daniel, it paused exactly on a subtitled scene to the words “you fat bastard”. We both spotted it at the same time and had a hell of a time trying to explain to our upset son what we were laughing at.
I’m more excited than ever about next week’s new arrival. My new TV! Finally I am going to step into the world of flat screens and HI-DEF, some 3 years after my own Dad – how embarrassing is that?
No doubt Jo will look at her first Blu-Ray HI-DEF film and squint her eyes for a bit before saying “Yes it’s ok, I can’t see much difference between this and the video on our old TV though, are you happy with it”
As Edwin Starr once said…
“Wives – HUH – What are they good for?” **
** Disclaimer:
If you finished that line yourself by singing “Absolutely nothing”, this was entirely your own opinion. I take no responsibility for that at all and in no way can be held responsible for any offence taken or problems that occur from you singing that out loud later on. My own opinion is that wives are often very useful indeed, and in fact are undervalued and deserve some new shoes. What was that dear? Okay, in fact it’s husbands that are completely useless, not wives. Now, please will you put the comedy rolling pin down and put the kettle on?
I shook my fists at the ceiling and shouted “KHAAAAAN!” Sorry, I am a Star Trek nerd, I tend to re enact William Shatner’s finest acting moment from Star Trek 2 in times of despair. Actually if I am honest, I think Bill’s acting may have peaked in T.J. Hooker, there was one scene in that where I recall he managed to make his hair go from straight to wavy, to straight, back to curly and even at one point to kind of an Afro, during one chase & fight scene – now that’s acting.
Why did Uhura have poo on her head? Because William Shatner.
Couldn’t resist wiping the dust of that old beauty – sorry.
My speakers arrived.
These are no ordinary speakers.
No way, these are Logitech and they are, quite literally, audio porn. Logitech Z-5500 5.1 channel amplifier system. The first thing I said when I opened the box was “Oh crap!” the subwoofer is as big as a car! I looked out the window – Jo was still out with the boys. I didn’t know how much time I had, but I knew I had to get this system set up and working, with the subwoofer somehow hidden away, before they were back. If Jo saw this huge box lying around before she heard it there would be no way I’d be allowed to keep it.
I set to work, speedily pulling out the TV stand and rearranging the whole set up to include my new toy. I had to completely remove the old VHS recorder, we never use that anymore anyway. I cut some fast holes in the back of the stand and poked wires through.
Very quickly indeed, the job was done.
I turned it on and then had to run very quickly to change my trousers. This is the Sandra Bullock of home entertainment.
I’d very nearly got everything finished and tidied away when Jo returned.
No matter how many different devices I played through it, however many different tweaks on the settings, Jo just sat there nodding and saying “yes, it’s quite good”, QUITE?
Next Jo screwed her nose up, as I put her favourite DVD on (Mama Mia) “I don’t like the base – can you turn it down? Why is the TV stood so far out from the wall, have you not put it all the way back in or something?”
I turned the base down, then a little more. Jo’s nose remained screwed up, so I turned it down some more. When this system was suggested to me, I was also advised to buy some fuses because when you “turn this bad boy right up it will blow the fuse”. Luckily I ignored this advice; there is no way I’m ever going to be in danger of blowing any fuses. In despair I looked at the display and noted that I only had one bar left on the subwoofer – and still Jo was complaining of over exposure to bass. I pointed out that the reason her nose was now pressed up to the TV was because there was a box big enough to sleep in behind the stand. I declared that this state of the art piece of craftsmanship was currently crying, desperate to be heard but in pain at the level of restraint she was forcing upon it. Jo, however, had stopped listening in the way that she always does when I try and explain anything remotely gadget based to her.
Later on, with the kids tucked up in bed I decided that we had a good sound system now, so it was time to watch a good film. I had been saving Slumdog Millionaire for a while after Jo had ‘taped’ it from the TV at Christmas. I knew Slumdog is supposed to be a decent film with a good soundtrack. I sighed as I remembered about the film, because it took me 20 minutes to go out to the garage, retrieve the VHS and plug it back in with Jo helpfully heckling me. Then I sighed again when I finally remembered that when Jo says she has ‘taped’ something, she actually means she has recorded it on Sky+.
Even Jo had to admit that it sounded great, and by the way, “decent film” does not do it any justice at all, it is a brilliant film. Admittedly some of the plaster fell off the ceiling due to the bass and at one point Daniel came down to ask if we could turn it down a bit. Jo and I spent the rest of the film giggling due to the fact that when I paused the film to talk to Daniel, it paused exactly on a subtitled scene to the words “you fat bastard”. We both spotted it at the same time and had a hell of a time trying to explain to our upset son what we were laughing at.
I’m more excited than ever about next week’s new arrival. My new TV! Finally I am going to step into the world of flat screens and HI-DEF, some 3 years after my own Dad – how embarrassing is that?
No doubt Jo will look at her first Blu-Ray HI-DEF film and squint her eyes for a bit before saying “Yes it’s ok, I can’t see much difference between this and the video on our old TV though, are you happy with it”
As Edwin Starr once said…
“Wives – HUH – What are they good for?” **
** Disclaimer:
If you finished that line yourself by singing “Absolutely nothing”, this was entirely your own opinion. I take no responsibility for that at all and in no way can be held responsible for any offence taken or problems that occur from you singing that out loud later on. My own opinion is that wives are often very useful indeed, and in fact are undervalued and deserve some new shoes. What was that dear? Okay, in fact it’s husbands that are completely useless, not wives. Now, please will you put the comedy rolling pin down and put the kettle on?
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hiring the band
Does anyone know if Robert Palmer’s backing band in ‘Addicted to Love’ actually played those instruments?
I’m thinking of hiring a band to play some music at my 40th birthday next year and quite fancy hiring them, if they are still together. If they did play the instruments I can’t help but wonder what a chance finding they must have been. Robert must have thought all his birthdays had come at once when his agent phoned him and said, “Hey, you won’t believe this, I’m at a club looking for your new backing band and there is a band of identical sextuplet babes playing covers of the Shadow’s greatest hits – their skirts are so short I can see their…” this was the 80’s so chances are his mobile battery would have cut off at that point or else his arm would have got too tired from trying to hold it to his ear. I remember the skirts being shorter than in the photo?
I imagine it must have been something like that.
Any way do you think they are still performing together? Mind you, I suppose they would be starting to look a little raggedy these days, by now if their skirts are still that short you will be able to see their boobs poking out the bottom! Maybe they are they like the Sugarbabes, and just keep regenerating every few years?
I did investigate getting Kylie Minogue, but she is opening a new Ikea on that weekend in Grimsby. Girl’s Aloud said they would come, but only if they could be first in the queue for the buffet when it opens. I said no way, My Mum is first up to the buffet – no one beats her to the sausage rolls, quiche and cocktail sticks with pineapple, cheese and pickled onions on – NOBODY!
The Pussycat Dolls have split up and I wasn’t able to find a llama skin rug for Beyonce’s dressing room (or even a dressing room) so she is out.
Mariah Carey’s request for a Big Mac meal (large!) before going on stage only left £25 for her fee, and she said she couldn’t do it for less than £40 so I’m afraid I’ve had to rule her out too.
At this point I have to say my wish list is becoming a little sparse (Leona Lewis refused to mime to Whitney Houston, and I couldn’t bare the idea of her singing her own crap. Witney Huston refused to mime to Blondie, and Debbie Harry is looking a tad past it if I’m honest.)
Kate Bush (now we are talking) was up for it until she discovered I was married. I think she spotted the distinct possibility that she might not be able to resist me in the flesh, so she cancelled because she doesn’t believe in husband poaching, bless her.
And so I have only one last possibility on my list, I’ve sent the letter and am hopeful of a positive response quite soon. I have told her about my Mum’s famous prawn voulevants, and her grated cheddar buns. I’ve mentioned about my Dad’s trifle that will also be out on the buffet, so I can’t see how she can refuse to be honest – and besides, £30 fee, one free plate from the buffet and two glasses of the finest Pinot Grigio that Sweden can produce is not to be sniffed at!
So come on Susan Boyle – don’t let me down!
P.S. I’ve just spent 20 minutes thoroughly researching Robert Palmer’s backing band on Google images (where I got the picture from, as well a bit sweaty) and have noted that there seem to be only 5 girls. Before you comment in outrage at the poor research of my sextuplet remark, you should know that when Robert auditioned the band, he decided that they didn’t need a Kazoo player and so the 6th member was ruthlessly sacked. She has not talked to her sisters since.
I’m thinking of hiring a band to play some music at my 40th birthday next year and quite fancy hiring them, if they are still together. If they did play the instruments I can’t help but wonder what a chance finding they must have been. Robert must have thought all his birthdays had come at once when his agent phoned him and said, “Hey, you won’t believe this, I’m at a club looking for your new backing band and there is a band of identical sextuplet babes playing covers of the Shadow’s greatest hits – their skirts are so short I can see their…” this was the 80’s so chances are his mobile battery would have cut off at that point or else his arm would have got too tired from trying to hold it to his ear. I remember the skirts being shorter than in the photo?
I imagine it must have been something like that.
Any way do you think they are still performing together? Mind you, I suppose they would be starting to look a little raggedy these days, by now if their skirts are still that short you will be able to see their boobs poking out the bottom! Maybe they are they like the Sugarbabes, and just keep regenerating every few years?
I did investigate getting Kylie Minogue, but she is opening a new Ikea on that weekend in Grimsby. Girl’s Aloud said they would come, but only if they could be first in the queue for the buffet when it opens. I said no way, My Mum is first up to the buffet – no one beats her to the sausage rolls, quiche and cocktail sticks with pineapple, cheese and pickled onions on – NOBODY!
The Pussycat Dolls have split up and I wasn’t able to find a llama skin rug for Beyonce’s dressing room (or even a dressing room) so she is out.
Mariah Carey’s request for a Big Mac meal (large!) before going on stage only left £25 for her fee, and she said she couldn’t do it for less than £40 so I’m afraid I’ve had to rule her out too.
At this point I have to say my wish list is becoming a little sparse (Leona Lewis refused to mime to Whitney Houston, and I couldn’t bare the idea of her singing her own crap. Witney Huston refused to mime to Blondie, and Debbie Harry is looking a tad past it if I’m honest.)
Kate Bush (now we are talking) was up for it until she discovered I was married. I think she spotted the distinct possibility that she might not be able to resist me in the flesh, so she cancelled because she doesn’t believe in husband poaching, bless her.
And so I have only one last possibility on my list, I’ve sent the letter and am hopeful of a positive response quite soon. I have told her about my Mum’s famous prawn voulevants, and her grated cheddar buns. I’ve mentioned about my Dad’s trifle that will also be out on the buffet, so I can’t see how she can refuse to be honest – and besides, £30 fee, one free plate from the buffet and two glasses of the finest Pinot Grigio that Sweden can produce is not to be sniffed at!
So come on Susan Boyle – don’t let me down!
P.S. I’ve just spent 20 minutes thoroughly researching Robert Palmer’s backing band on Google images (where I got the picture from, as well a bit sweaty) and have noted that there seem to be only 5 girls. Before you comment in outrage at the poor research of my sextuplet remark, you should know that when Robert auditioned the band, he decided that they didn’t need a Kazoo player and so the 6th member was ruthlessly sacked. She has not talked to her sisters since.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)