Oh, who knows anything anyway

1. It’s not that life has been quiet at the Mansion of Y, people of Blogland. Oh no. In fact it’s been a positively frantic six days, six days and already my fingers seem to have forgotten how to navigate this keyboard. Lots happened in the real world. I had fun and frolics and witty things were said, but I didn’t write it down at the time and now it’s too late.

2. I could tell you about what I’ve been up to with my Special lady Friend this past week; but then you’d sigh and wish your week too had involved candlelit, musty subterranean winebars, picnics by the Thames and extremely potent pot brownies consumed during – thankfully- a 3 day bank holiday week end. Yes. I could. But I won’t.

3. Today the cat and I are sulking in our respective corners. He because he got another asymmetrical haircut earlier; I because I have been awaiting the arrival of the ParcelForce man since 8am this morning; It’s now 6.19pm, and I’m irritated. I tried ironing; there’s something strangely soothing about the gliding, steaming iron on 300 threadcount linen pillow cases; perhaps it’s the smell of lavender, perhaps my troubled soul finds solace in smoothing out crumpled shirts. Still, a pile of anally pressed linen later and two tall glasses of Pimm’s and lemonade, and still no Parcelforce delivery man. This inebriated domestic goddess’s nerves are frazzled.

4. Pah. It’s all I’ve got to say for myself today. Too much sugar, not enough exercise. Thank you for stopping by.

Slices of domestic life in the House of Y

1. So yesterday, people of blogland, I made polenta. It’s this newly found enthusiasm for cooking, you see; all of a sudden, I can do it, and the finished product is usually rather good. I think. Except for polenta, which is fucking boring.

-J, I shriek, polenta is fucking boring.
-I know, he replies. He doesn’t know, of course, because he lives on tatties and slices of I can’t believe it’s not cardboard smothered in peanut butter; but if he pretends that he does, he thinks I won’t force him to try it.
-How do you know?
-Err.. my dad used to grow it in the garden. And frankly, if I see one more polenta, I’m going to e-x-p-l-o-d-e!
-Yeah. Anyway, it tastes of nothing, what can I do with it? I should phone my mum and ask.
-Why don’t you just google it? This way you don’t have to talk to anybody.
-No, I’ll phone my mum.
-Oh, she knows more than google, then, does she, he asks in that dangerous tone.
-I prefer the human factor.
-And how do you think all the stuff on google got there in the first place?
-My mum put it there!
-Exactly.

I don’t know who won, but even the cat wouldn’t eat the polenta. Next time, I think, cheese. Then you can all come for dinner.

2. I think the best way to not fall prone to a severe post-holiday depression is to start planning the next one. All I can say is: so many places, and if enough time, so little money. So now I’ll sigh watching the rain diluting London, and I’ll go back to reading Ulverton by Adam Thorpe, because it’s really really good.

3. Last night I had a date with my Special Lady Friend. We figured out that this was our fourth one. I don’t have anything to report except that I’m grateful for her excellent company, warmth, wit and kindness. (And she’s really hot, too.)

That’s all I have to say for myself today. Thank you for stopping by.

This is only for Edith Finistère

I’m sorry, Edith. You’re right. It’s false advertising. The promised cookies haven’t exactly been forthcoming. So I give you: Chocolate Chip Cookies, the recipe. And no talk of flaps or islands for a while.

INGREDIENTS:
· 1 cup butter, room temperature
· 3/4 cup granulated sugar
· 1 1/4 cups brown sugar, firmly packed
· 2 eggs
· 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
· 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
· 3/4 teaspoon salt
· 1 teaspoon baking powder
· 1 teaspoon baking soda
· 2 to 3 cups semisweet chocolate chips
PREPARATION:
In large mixing bowl cream butter and sugars until light. Beat in the eggs and vanilla.
Sift together the flour, salt baking powder, and soda; stir into the first mixture, blending well. Stir in chocolate chips.
Shape into balls about 1 1/2 inches in diameter and place 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet.
Bake in a preheated 350° oven for 8 to 10 minutes, or until edges are light brown.
Makes about 4 to 5 dozen cookies.

Alternatively, Betty Crocker makes a mean Brownies mix. Just add and egg, water, oil, and chopped walnuts. Wonderful.

Bertha the muse of blogging is away on holiday.

Seriously.

Go here. It'll take a minute to load, but it's seriously worth it. Seriously.
G'wan. You'll thank me for it. I promise.

Withdrawal symptoms.

So, yes, I admit it, it was Lesvos we went to. I say Mitileni, but really you and I, people and Blogland, know that it’s Lesvos. Greavsie totally blew my cover.

Anyway. Withdrawal symptoms.
I think I may be having them, people of blogland. Seriously. It’s serious.

Ah, the simple life on Lesvos. Ah, the Sappho Guest house and its sunburnt guests in various states of undress! Ah, the measly trickle of cold Lesbian water in the shower! Ah, the tiny gravy granules-like stones from the Lesbian beach that hide in your crack, get carried to the bathroom/bedroom, then pepper the floor for days! Ah, the ‘Unleash your creativity with other like-minded women in a safe environment’ workshops!

It’s just not the same here you know.
All this middle class London comfort, and not the tiniest workshop on how to write bad poetry about orchids or how to worship your vulva.
I might sulk.

Therefore, I’ve just stood in the bathtub and washed from a cold trickle of water; afterwards, I covered the floor in Bisto granules, for more authenticity. Later my lover is coming over, so we can play the ‘find the granules in your crack’ game, and then unleash our creativity together, in a very Lesbian way. Just like on the island. Yay. That’s how we treat withdrawal symptoms in my world.

There seems to be a pattern

1. Wake up to the yells of the fishmonger outside the hotel yelling things about calamari in Greek.
2. Shake your fist at the window and utter one of the ten Greek words you know: malaka..
3. Retrieve bed sheet from floor and wrap around naked self, toga-like, in a futile attempt at covering sweating nakedness.
4. Put on sunglasses.
5. Open shutters and breathe in calamari/sea smell.
6. Emerge blinking from whitewashed bedroom.
7. Stumble on cats #45, #73 and #47 that are currently lying down in the corridor, blending in with the carpet. Make your way downstairs.
8. Step over a score of lesbians sunning themselves in various states of undress on the deck. Swap glasses for darker ones so they can’t catch you leering/staring/sniggering.
9. Sink into one the chairs overlooking the unrelenting expanse of blue.
10. Eat yoghurt with honey, fruit and the ubiquitous hardboiled egg, surrounded by felines #64, #69 and omnipresent #45. Later, to simplify things, we’ll call them all George, except for a bit black moggy I’ll name Moriarty, and a skinny one that’ll become Hercules.
11. The stray dogs will also be called George.
12. Cover body in SPF 20. Swap homemade toga for bikini and elegantly wrapped sarong.
13. Go to naked beach and lose the whole lot.
14. Paddle. Fall in. Swim. Read. Swim. Tan. Get the little rocks out of your crack.
15. Decide to go back to the room and take a ‘nap’. Get little rocks out of your lover’s crack.
16. Spend the rest of the day swimming, attempting showers under a futile trickle of cold water, sitting by the sea, drinking ouzo, stumbling over Georges, reading, or listening to Jacqui, like in this particular extract:

I find that when I go on holiday I forget how big my breasts are. They’re around, but I forget. I think I’m a B cup. In real life I know that I’m a woman of substance, but here I don’t give a toss. They are falling out of my top, oh well. That’s going to end up on your blog, isn’t it. Better keep quiet.

All in all, a holiday well spent.

1. People of Blogland, I’m back from Helas. Tanned and slim, because of the food poisoning. Oh well, I hadn’t thrown up since 1993, it was time.

2. Day one: I think we should keep a diary, I say to Jacqui.
Yeah, she replies. You write it and I’ll make the odd witty comment.

3. As it turns out, we were far too busy to write anything at all. I might have fascinating things to report, but first I have to get over the food poisoning, sleep for 24 hours, and then we’ll see.

Oh, Lard.

Bollocks to this

I'm going to the sea.
Back next Thursday.
Do talk amongst yourselves.
Love you all.

Ps : I'll bring back naked pictures of Jacqui. If we can get her drunk enough.