Mango Chutney

1. People of Blogland, my Special Lady Friend is making kedgeree and kicked me out of the kitchen, so it’s just you and me. (I was banished from the kitchen because I’m a mess around onions. I cry, and cry, and it’s not even cute.)
I poked my head round a minute ago just to check how I could make a nuisance of myself.
Say ‘Bromide’, I asked.
What can I say, I like the way she says it. It’s the way she rolls her ‘rr’. It does things to me that bromide itself definitely wouldn’t.
‘Brrrrrromide’, she complied with a smile.
‘I knew you loved me!’ I purred, and closed the door.
I reckon we should write a cookery book together. She reckons we should call it ‘Dykes’ dinners’. Do you think it would sell?
I poked my head around again; the smells are making me hungrier. She was crying: deadly onions. I opened a bottle of Sancerre. It’ll be a meal worthy of the gods, I’m telling you that much. Santé.

2. Blogpeople, my Special lady friend and I are both penniless, broke, skint, bust. I know why I am: it’s all those things I bought and/or ate in Paris, hotel bill and train tickets, on top of my general usual lavishness. (My SLF is seemingly broke because she purchased a new power drill.) So, no going out until payday, but that’s ok because it’s too cold anyway. In an attempt to bring this dismal, limp, fizzless February down on its miserable knees, the rest of today shall be spent the exact same civilised way it began: with copious amounts of good food and extremely dirty sex (if it’s not dirty it’s not done right). If I’m lucky, I’ll get a massage, too. I’m feeling very lucky.

Blogfolks, I’m starting to like Sundays.