Men in the kitchen

Well, it's been a couple of weeks and I've been cogitating as to what to write about next.  Just as the muse had completely deserted me, up popped an invitation from Sarah Hague.  Being tagged by other Bloggers and invited to join in with a meme is very flattering but I rarely seem to get round to responding.  So, this time, I've given myself a talking to and I'm going away now to ruminate  (don't you call me an old cow) and return with some answers.


Meanwhile, here's something to keep you going.  It's called 'Men in the kitchen' and, although it doesn't star the Shah, it easily could....

Arsewipes

It is Sunday evening.  About 9.15.  the Shah’s mobile rings.  It is his friend and collaborator, Mr H.  Mr H has rung to invite the Shah on a BNO (Boys’ Night Out) on Tuesday.

“Tuesday?” says the Shah ruminatively.  “Yeah.  Should be fine.  Don’t think I’ve got anything on...”

At this point, his wife and daughter, who are close by, roar with laughter.  Not just because the Shah is too much of a dolt to realise that Tuesday will be Valentine’s Day but also because Mrs H will be wearing Mr H’s Nadgers for earrings when she finds out.

None of this deters them and they make a date for the usual curry and a film.  The curry choice rarely varies and the film genre doesn’t change much either. It’s usually a Lamb Madras and a side order of “Shaven-headed man sweats heavily and swears a lot as he defeats terrorist/kidnappers/aliens – perm any one from three” in glorious Technicolor.

Not that it really matters.  We don't go overboard for Valentine’s/Mothers Day/Fathers Day etc etc – none of these:-

Or these:-

But we do buy each other cards.  So...as the day dawns, I awake unnecessarily early (it’s half term – I’m on holiday) and sneak downstairs while the Shah is in the shower (alliteratively speaking) to put his card somewhere obvious so that he sees it before leaving for work.  Now the Shah likes to play little tricks on me and hide my card in the hope that I will accuse him of neglect and he can catch me out.  Once he has gone off to work, I glance around, expecting to see a little red envelope peeping out from somewhere.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.

So just to recap.

I have none of these 

I have none of these  

I have not got one of these  

Just as I am feeling mega-sorry for myself, the doorbell rings.  It is the nice Sainsbury man with my delivery.  I haul everything into the house and, just as I sign for the stuff, he whips something out from behind his back and holds it out to me with a warm smile.  “Here you are love,” he chirps.  “Have these on us – buckshee!”  Because I am laughing so much as his use of ‘Buckshee’ – a word I haven’t heard for, oh, decades, I don’t look properly at the item in my hand until he has waved me a cheery farewell and started back up the garden path.

Is it roses?  No.

Is it chocolates?  No.

Is it a card?  No.

This is what Sainsbury’s has sent me to mark St Valentine’s Day.

Yes.  Arsewipes. FECKING ANDREX ARSEWIPES.

The Shah arrives home.  I complain bitterly about the lack of a card.  The daughter complains on my behalf.  The Shah is unmoved.  He laughs a happy little laugh and pats me on the hand absent-mindedly.

“Never mind,” he says.  “Valentine’s isn’t really for married people, is it?”

Arsewipe.

Wow!

Take a look at this:-


The scale of the Universe

Ignore the flashy window on the left and press 'start'.  Then use the scroll bar to zoom in and out.  No doubt the music helped, but I found it quite mind-blowing!


What do you think?


CQ x

The definition of madness

The definition of madness is said to be repeating the same error but not learning from the experience.

If that is so, I am the maddest of the mad.

You would have thought I would have learnt my lesson when it comes to socialising with colleagues after this experience, but no.

Last week, we decided to go out to celebrate a significant birthday for one of our number.  Not a huge deal – meet up for a drink and then have a meal at a local Italian Restaurant we had been to before.  And all went according to plan.  Most people were driving so there were no drunken shenanigans, the like of which were seen at the Ice Bar.  In fact it was a pleasant, if pretty tame, night all in all.

Until we got to the pudding.

Like the drinkers, the pudding eaters were in the minority.  And it always seems to go that if someone has food and the people around them don’t, it is de rigueur for the non-eaters to stare avidly at the eater’s food in lust and envy.

And so it was with L’s pudding.  She is pregnant, so she can afford to have the occasional treat.  She ordered the banana crepe with homemade ice cream.   

And this treat (as we pointed out to her) could only be a timely reminder of what caused her situation in the first place...

Even worse head on (if you pardon the expression)

The Italian chefs took a while to realise what we were cackling at.  and looked duly disgusted.  Oops....