Note to self - clean drains more frequently!
I'd never do anything as self-obsessed as reading over my past blog entries, but if I did, I suspect I should conclude that what this blog lacks is focus (and decent spelling, and grammar, and any kind of structured approach to what is laughably mangled english).
Others have blogs about things, even if it's only themselves. Somebody blogging about their garden, whether it be what they have in the propagation chamber at the moment or a war journal about the epic struggle they wage against moles (which, amazingly, are even gripping on days when nothing happens - 'July 14th, no sign of moles, worrying.' 'July 18th, still no moles, concern growing'. 'July 30th, no moles. Worry has blossomed into full blown psychosis. Have stopped going to work, have stopped washing and have started to pee into containers and store it in attic'.) So blogging on a changing subject always offers something new, or new seeming, as talking about the same thing in a variety of ways always seems much more interesting than talking about a variety of things in the same way.
I was going to make food the subject of today's blog entry. Or more precisely, food porn.
The M&S ads running before Christmas, culminating in a shot of a bottle of cava opening, the cork flying and a slow motion avalanche of froth spurting from the neck of the bottle might just as well have finished by panning back to reveal a topless woman being caught full in the face with the flying white fluid but smiling throughout like the trooper she is. This wasn't just a food ad, this was food porn. They should only have been allowed to show that ad after the watershed.
I was going to do a full on food porn ad for the great British breakfast.
In these stale sprout days between Christmas and New Year, with the rest of the world busy either fighting over the last jumper in the Next sale or slumped in front of a telly, clinically dead, I jump astride my bike and peddle like the out-of condition, fat f**k that I am to the supermarket in the nearby village.
The village is on a hill and so getting there takes about forty minutes. I arrive in a sweating heap and have to make myself decent before being allowed to squeeze vegetables. The ride back is basically an exercise in taking my feet off the peddles and going 'wheeeeeeeeeeee' for ten minutes, all downhill.
This morning, experementing with a new route (Rule number 3 - never vary the route), I managed to get something like lost. Okay, it was exactly like lost in the sense that I did not know where I was but not quite like lost in that I could easily back track (sacrificing lots of pride) and I still knew generally where I was.
I just headed uphill. When you're a cyclist, your destination is ALWAYS uphill and so it proved to be. It was quite exciting, I even had to carry my bike past a dead tree at one point, crossing the downs. My one concern was that I might be straying a bit near the nearby prison. I was worried not for myself (I'm not so pretty that a lag on the run would interrupt his escape to drag me into a bush and bum me senseless) but for my bike, which would provide the ideal means of escape, both off and on road, for any Lance Armstrong fan who had gone over the wall.
Finally I found civilisation and purchased all that a man needs for a decent late breakfast - paper, bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, black pudding and (god forgive me) oven chips. (I sill have a thing about having several pints of oil heated to scalding point in the house...I think it's something to do with too much Dungeons and Dragons and being on the wrong end of a cauldron of the kitchen's best during a siege).
So I stuffed it all in a bag and headed home, toying with the idea of blogging about something at last. Not myself, not moles, but food.
The Food Blog. I'd finally be able to take one of my passions - banging on about food - and combine it with another - banging on about food A LOT. Heading the column, a gratutiously sexy shot of the full english, with baked beans and a slice of white buttered bread, the fat glistening in the artful lighting.
I started to get into this. It displaced the other thoughts I usually file under 'oh shit what am I going to blog about...must write something or it will appear I have no life...oh shit..I have no life!'
Mind you, as I shot past the bookies there was one image that I now can't get out of my head and which I thought epitomised the 'back to normal' nature of the sprout days. On the welcome mat of the bookies, just inside the glass door, a fearsome dog of no particular breed and no obvious owner was industriously licking at its nethers. This, I thought, was a great ad for the lifestyle embodied in certain places, such as the pub or bookies. The tag line should have been - 'Class!'. This, I am sure, is why so many people gamble on line. Having said that, it had its own particular charm, and I've seen people behave worse.
Scrunching to a halt on the gravel at home, I spied a large puddle where a small puddle had been yesterday. It hasn't rained for weeks. Oh shit.
So a grand breakfast became a hasty lunch and then it was time to start peering in drains. No obvious problem except a shed load of leaf litter blocking one of my drains. That, I can assure you, was a thrill to dig out.
Then off to the megaDIY store, as my trusty provider of nails, screws and advice in the village was bloody well closed. The big orange and white fleecer had loads of staff on today, its just that none of them were on the tills. What there were at the tills were people, lots of them, and, as you can imagine, they were all f**king fed up with having to f**king be in a DIY store in the first place. I mean, who wants to be in a DIY store at this time of year buying turps, when you can be eating all the left over mince pies and rooting through the papers in the after eights box to see if any still have chocolates in.
Got my drain cleaner. Dissolves hair and, more importantly, fat, on contact apparently. Have decanted entire bloody bottle down drain in hope it will do the trick as am hoping that problem is simply fatty deposits of Christmas dinner rather than anything frost related.
Cycling to DIY shop a lot less fun than recreational cycling to get sausage supplies. Am hoping that if there is a blockage it was just leaf mulch, now removed, rather than ghost of a million sausages, most of which consumed in last week. Naturally, when faced with chemical that dissolves fat, treated with exceptional care, as in my case it would have to go through skin first.
Others have blogs about things, even if it's only themselves. Somebody blogging about their garden, whether it be what they have in the propagation chamber at the moment or a war journal about the epic struggle they wage against moles (which, amazingly, are even gripping on days when nothing happens - 'July 14th, no sign of moles, worrying.' 'July 18th, still no moles, concern growing'. 'July 30th, no moles. Worry has blossomed into full blown psychosis. Have stopped going to work, have stopped washing and have started to pee into containers and store it in attic'.) So blogging on a changing subject always offers something new, or new seeming, as talking about the same thing in a variety of ways always seems much more interesting than talking about a variety of things in the same way.
I was going to make food the subject of today's blog entry. Or more precisely, food porn.
The M&S ads running before Christmas, culminating in a shot of a bottle of cava opening, the cork flying and a slow motion avalanche of froth spurting from the neck of the bottle might just as well have finished by panning back to reveal a topless woman being caught full in the face with the flying white fluid but smiling throughout like the trooper she is. This wasn't just a food ad, this was food porn. They should only have been allowed to show that ad after the watershed.
I was going to do a full on food porn ad for the great British breakfast.
In these stale sprout days between Christmas and New Year, with the rest of the world busy either fighting over the last jumper in the Next sale or slumped in front of a telly, clinically dead, I jump astride my bike and peddle like the out-of condition, fat f**k that I am to the supermarket in the nearby village.
The village is on a hill and so getting there takes about forty minutes. I arrive in a sweating heap and have to make myself decent before being allowed to squeeze vegetables. The ride back is basically an exercise in taking my feet off the peddles and going 'wheeeeeeeeeeee' for ten minutes, all downhill.
This morning, experementing with a new route (Rule number 3 - never vary the route), I managed to get something like lost. Okay, it was exactly like lost in the sense that I did not know where I was but not quite like lost in that I could easily back track (sacrificing lots of pride) and I still knew generally where I was.
I just headed uphill. When you're a cyclist, your destination is ALWAYS uphill and so it proved to be. It was quite exciting, I even had to carry my bike past a dead tree at one point, crossing the downs. My one concern was that I might be straying a bit near the nearby prison. I was worried not for myself (I'm not so pretty that a lag on the run would interrupt his escape to drag me into a bush and bum me senseless) but for my bike, which would provide the ideal means of escape, both off and on road, for any Lance Armstrong fan who had gone over the wall.
Finally I found civilisation and purchased all that a man needs for a decent late breakfast - paper, bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, black pudding and (god forgive me) oven chips. (I sill have a thing about having several pints of oil heated to scalding point in the house...I think it's something to do with too much Dungeons and Dragons and being on the wrong end of a cauldron of the kitchen's best during a siege).
So I stuffed it all in a bag and headed home, toying with the idea of blogging about something at last. Not myself, not moles, but food.
The Food Blog. I'd finally be able to take one of my passions - banging on about food - and combine it with another - banging on about food A LOT. Heading the column, a gratutiously sexy shot of the full english, with baked beans and a slice of white buttered bread, the fat glistening in the artful lighting.
I started to get into this. It displaced the other thoughts I usually file under 'oh shit what am I going to blog about...must write something or it will appear I have no life...oh shit..I have no life!'
Mind you, as I shot past the bookies there was one image that I now can't get out of my head and which I thought epitomised the 'back to normal' nature of the sprout days. On the welcome mat of the bookies, just inside the glass door, a fearsome dog of no particular breed and no obvious owner was industriously licking at its nethers. This, I thought, was a great ad for the lifestyle embodied in certain places, such as the pub or bookies. The tag line should have been - 'Class!'. This, I am sure, is why so many people gamble on line. Having said that, it had its own particular charm, and I've seen people behave worse.
Scrunching to a halt on the gravel at home, I spied a large puddle where a small puddle had been yesterday. It hasn't rained for weeks. Oh shit.
So a grand breakfast became a hasty lunch and then it was time to start peering in drains. No obvious problem except a shed load of leaf litter blocking one of my drains. That, I can assure you, was a thrill to dig out.
Then off to the megaDIY store, as my trusty provider of nails, screws and advice in the village was bloody well closed. The big orange and white fleecer had loads of staff on today, its just that none of them were on the tills. What there were at the tills were people, lots of them, and, as you can imagine, they were all f**king fed up with having to f**king be in a DIY store in the first place. I mean, who wants to be in a DIY store at this time of year buying turps, when you can be eating all the left over mince pies and rooting through the papers in the after eights box to see if any still have chocolates in.
Got my drain cleaner. Dissolves hair and, more importantly, fat, on contact apparently. Have decanted entire bloody bottle down drain in hope it will do the trick as am hoping that problem is simply fatty deposits of Christmas dinner rather than anything frost related.
Cycling to DIY shop a lot less fun than recreational cycling to get sausage supplies. Am hoping that if there is a blockage it was just leaf mulch, now removed, rather than ghost of a million sausages, most of which consumed in last week. Naturally, when faced with chemical that dissolves fat, treated with exceptional care, as in my case it would have to go through skin first.
1 Comments:
Well at least you're getting exercise. My pants are too tight and my only form of exercise at work this week has been walking to the bathroom and back, to the filing cabinet and back, to the breakroom and back. I can't wait for my new year's resolutions to start! (I've decided once again to try anorexia).
That being said, please don't make your blog about food unless you talk about how evil and disgusting it is. I think in order to be anorexic I must learn to hate food instead of getting off to it. I must learn to stop moaning with every bite of each tender morsel.
Additionally, I will have to stop cooking. This will be easy since I, too, am having drainage problems. However, mine has something to do with the disposal in the kitchen sink. Once before when this happened the maintenance man came, pushed a button, and then in 30 seconds it was fixed. So, instead of being embarrassed again, I decided to try it myself, but much to my own dismay, it did not work. I only have 2 more months til my lease is up...I'll just wait it out.
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