Erasing The Evidence

There was an incident back in January, the evidence in the form of a big discoloured splash on the wall has remained to taunt me long after the yellow and purple bruises on my nose faded. My time at the Pop Flat in London is coming to an end and I must leave my room in the condition that I found it - this morning I wielded a brush loaded with white paint.

I’ll be sorry to go, Half a Pop Group went away for a month during my time here. Since they’ve been back the house has been full of the new tunes they made up during their trip, the Child has not yet been emptied of the helium produced by the excitement of her adventures so we have all been testing the songs loudly for singalongandanceability.

I am also less likely to wake and find myself engulfed in flames these days. My housemate Felicity has a habit of starting to make her supper then wandering off to gaze at the patterns on her bedroom floor - the Child has a sharp young nose and is very good at banging on Felicity’s door and yelling

FELICITY WAKE UP – YOUR RICE IS ON FIRE!


Malick Sidibé

On my table is the evidence of a photographic exhibition I visited a couple of days ago in West London; Malick Sidibé is well known for his photographs taken at clubs and parties in Mali during the 50s and 60s. This show is a selection of studio portraits from the 70s that Sidibé has reprinted with additional handwritten titles which give an extra, often comical, dimension to the images.

It seems that the entire population of the country piled into Sidibés studio to have their photograph taken in their grooviest clothes against a backdrop of stripey African cloth, the men flaunting their fashionable slim-fit shirts (the collars, the collars!) and their wider than wide flares (pantalon aux pattes d'éléphant), the women combining traditional ‘wax’ fabric head and body wraps with chic sunglasses and western-style tops, this is a portrait of a nation at a particular time in their history. Every subject, gazes intensely, proudly out of the frame, even the dribbley-faced child clutching an oversized comb has a dignified solemnity about her.

There is so much to love about this show, superb photography, great printing - and these are the best fashion images I have ever seen.


Lichfield Studios, London W10 from 11 March-16 April

Gardening Leave

SOLITARY BEES. (Apidoe.)
1, Osmia; 2, Anthidium; 3, Panurgus; 4, Megachile.


I’ve just had an extended weekend back in Bristol. My husband (known on this blog as The Director) is a very dedicated naturalist so when the blackbirds wake us up with a blast of new season competitive singing at four in the morning his response is to get up and stand outside the front door in his pants with recording equipment. My role in this enterprise is to defrost the man-sized ice block that rolls back into bed an hour later.

I miss not having a garden when I’m in London and I love sitting outside with my coffee. However, our garden mustn’t be disturbed because our house houses a production company that makes natural history films and it’s quite handy to have a film set outside the back door. I am forbidden from doing any digging or planting apart from a very small area the size of a child’s sand box right at the end where I am allowed to plant a bit of salad (for the caterpillars).

One community that is being groomed for greatness in the garden is a colony* of solitary bees that started making burrows in our lawn a few years ago. Year on year the number and variety of species has increased and as these creatures arrive in ever greater numbers so do gangs of reprobate insects; parasitic bees and wasps coming round to steal the bee holes and lay eggs on the bee larva, a whole soap opera of naughtiness and cheating is going on down there.

Once the bees start their activity no sitting on the lawn is allowed in case the bees get a bit cross waiting to get in or out of their holes so The Director and I teeter together with our morning coffee on a bit of wobbly wall by the edge of my sand box.


*Strictly speaking we shouldn’t say 'colony' the correct word is aggregation, none of the bees are related, they just like living around each other in dense populations.

Thank You Katrocket

Look what arrived in the post today from my gorgeous Canadian friend Katrocket!!!

This Glorious Artifact is a belt buckle immortalising my gurning nephew in pure Titian Crystal®, surrounded by diamonds and blue fairy dust from Mars. In years to come I plan to gift this treasure to his future spouse as a wedding gift.

You too can commission the supremely talented Beevers to make you a customised wearable item featuring your favourite person/dog/vase.

Tardis Belly

Sourdough bread, butter and honey

Apricot tart

Argentinian empanada

Pastry filled with Dulce de Leche

Chinese ribs with fresh noodles

Salt cod rissole

Portuguese custard tart

A Morroccan chicken pasty the size of a big man’s fist

Rice pudding

That’s what went in to my stomach today and unsurprisingly it is making low growly noises, I embarked on a weekend of eating my way around the London markets starting yesterday at Broadway Market in Hackney. This morning I made an early dash to Chiswick Farmers Market to buy lamb and cake with Half a Pop Group before joining the seething masses along Brick Lane.

Fortification is needed for Brick Lane, among the sci-fi film extras and stoned rocknroll types with their big coats, bigger hair and wacky hatsneyewear there are a phenomenal amount of people dragging suitcases along.

And there is an overwhelming amount of food - I wanted it all – well lots of it, not the lump of mashed potato that was being stirred around in tepid oil but I did want warm pepper and chorizo rolls and latkes and samosas ... but most of all after a very short period of squeezing my way through the crowds I needed to sit down.

Seeing a vacant chair placed at a table covered with a rose-printed oilcloth, I asked the lady standing behind the counter if I could have whatever she was serving. She turned and shouted at the curtain behind her, a man emerged and picked up a lump of white dough from a floured counter top, he swung it around, fast, forming long ropes which he drew out to make thinner. When he had made a whole skein of fat string he threw it into a boiling cauldron, fished it out a minute later, placed it in a bowl, added broth and ribs and put the ensemble on the rose-printed cloth where I was sitting - it was the most delicious thing in the world.

Charcuterie For Vegetarians

Smelly Yoga

It’s Thursday - yoga day at my local Asian Health Centre for the Elderly. Us non-members come in first and push the chairs and sofas to the edges of the room, when we’ve finished our class the seniors arrive for a session with the same teacher - they all seem to be men. While they are waiting for us to gather up our things and leave, they get on the exercise bikes at one end of the room and gossip while pedalling.

Our yoga room is on a busy street; heavy traffic, children and mad people can be heard screeching at volume on the other side of the big windows. Inside we have an extractor fan which starts rumbling when the kitchen staff arrive, the fan circulates the pungent lunch smells but keeps them trapped in the room with us. There were more incense sticks than usual this morning because the oldies are making model planes involving the use of strong solvents, some of which has leaked into the carpet.

Our teacher is very keen on breathing and making sure the air flows in and out through the correct orifices, we are instructed to concentrate on our bottoms

Keep your mind on your anal sphincter - and any other apertures underneath, make sure none of your energy escapes!

This was a particular challenge today because I have reacted badly to last night’s eel and quite a lot of energy was requesting release.

Topsy Turvey

In the Pop Flat, where I stay during the week, The Child has partly grasped the idea that travelling can make time go backwards. When she went to bed tonight she showed me her Christmas stocking.





I felt it only right to say that I didn’t think Santa would be along any time soon

Well I’m putting it up just in case.

I am not working this week and my body is confused. I’ve lost my routine and I’m not sure what I eat when I don’t have to cook. I wandered into a shop and got stuck in the tinned section, mesmerised by stuff that should never be put in cans, things like pasta and sausages. But they tasted so good when I was a child - I bought a can of macaroni cheese.

Later I was in an area with a lot of Asian restaurants, I decided that this would be a good idea for supper, I chose the gaudiest looking place on the street, the others looked a little too smart or too hip for my mood. I should’ve walked straight back out when the smell of incense knocked me sideways, but I am British and we soldier on. It turned out that the best thing in the restaurant was the little patch of bright green turf placed under the glass in the table, I did also enjoy reading the menu which was separated into sections;

Meat
Chicken
Fish
Vegetables
Frog & Eel
Noodles
Rice...

Just as the restaurant was filling up, three men in dirty overalls walked in and went upstairs, soon the sound of intense drilling from above obliterated the harp muzak and made our tables vibrate.

Return Of The Child

I guessed from the pile of luggage in the hall that my landlords had come back from the other side of the world - it didn’t take long for audible confirmation.

The Child used to keep me under silent surveillance but now appears to be filled with helium. Bouncing off the walls with excitement she couldn’t decide whether to be a giraffe or a star as she tried to explain what she’s been doing for the last month.

The parents and The Child went to bed early but their body clocks weren’t going to let them get away with it that easily, I heard animated chatter around midnight and then all went quiet.

This morning I heard that The Child and her father were so wide awake they decided that they might as well go to the big 24-hour supermarket. A member of staff found their behaviour curious and they were taken in for questioning, the father being under suspicion of abduction.

The Last Straw

Bracing myself for an afternoon at the Crazy White House I decided to go and see some Art; first to an exhibition of William Eggleston's photos, which inspired me to go mad iphotographing with my iphone. Spotting an Indian sweet shop I went in for some Egglestonesque pics, the owners were charming and talked to me about sweet-making. When I moved in for some close up shots I noticed that there was a jet black human hair embedded in one of the knobbley orange balls I'd been planning to buy.

I erased the hair image from my head with a visit to the Wellcome Collection which has some brilliantly weird stuff - and a great café.


Arrived at CWH feeling mellow and happy. Then the children came home and it was all shattered. Having recently been in a household with normal, happy, only slightly fighty, children, the awfulness of the CWH children is like having the world turned up to horror-movie screaming pitch. I’ve been wearing earplugs but still I hear them ordering the staff around and see them helping themselves to fistfuls of crap from the easily accessible sweetie drawer*.

When they do get brought to table for supper they are plugged into one of their many electronic games and the nannies bring other toys to distract them from the fact that they are eating. Two adults spoonfeed the children, I ask the five-year old why he won’t feed himself
I don’t want to look at the food

This is the nightly ritual, the adults plead and wheedle but the children rarely eat much. They get down from the table and are given more chocolate, the boy starts taunting the dog, his mother says

Don’t do that he doesn’t like it

No stop it look he’s trying to get away from you


This goes on for quite a long time, eventually the dog yelps and the child starts crying - I am so angry that I snap and tell him

And if I see you do that again I will bite off all your fingers

CWH Lady looks a bit shocked and I realise that I am questioning my previously held belief that Murder is Wrong so I say that I am sick and I really won’t be able to come in any more


*why do parents do this? It might be 'Natural’ and 'Organic’ but it’s still fat and sugar.

French Exchange

While I was living in France I wrote several posts about my neighbours who lived in the big house down the road, Mme B wears long stick-on nails, tattooed maquillage and six-inch heels, her husband has a military haircut and cashmere coats. Mme B is a mighty force to be reckoned with and quickly became my staunch ally, getting out her typewriter and bashing out firey letters of application, resignation and complaint on the frequent occasions that I needed them.

Her young and feckless son Jules, has arrived in London, his English is minimal and he needs help with job applications, I suggested we meet last Monday and sent him the time and address of a meeting place. He was very late and explained how he navigates the city using just the tube map, getting to a station that he thinks might be about right, then wandering around until he stumbles upon the place he wants to be. He’s been doing this for three weeks now. I told him to get a proper map and improve his English trés vite.

I sent Jules a rewritten version of his cv and he asked if we could meet again so that he could practise speaking English, we made a rendezvous for the hour before I started work today*

Blow me down if he didn’t do exactly the same thing again - arrived late because he’s using the bloody tube map, I was striding away up the street, swinging my shopping basket furiously, he saw me and ran after me, trying to keep up and apologise at the same time. I took the opportunity to practise my French rebuking vocabulary, English people rebuking in French (or at least me doing it) just makes French people laugh, he didn’t seem nearly chastised enough for my liking.

* I’m back at the CWH – DON’T give me a hard time, it’s just for a week and I need the money - it isn't improving my mood.

Dances With Whales

Last week's cooking job came with in-house entertainment, it was half term, no electronic games in the house and the television was curiously only able to receive a signal for a couple of hours each day, so the children had to work out what to do for themselves, after a bit of bored flopping around someone has an idea

Let’s put on a show!

they disappear excitedly to start rehearsals, only to return after an hour, the project has been abandoned due to artistic differences.

The two girls then decide that they will do 'Dancing On Ice’

One child strips down to her underwear and the other ran off to get her swimsuit and goggles on, they explain;
in Dancing on Ice you have to have bare arms and bare legs

They wafted around the kitchen, describing their sequinned outfits, one child dancing with a stuffed whale while the other, embracing a column of air, told me about her handsome partner

He has long brown hair and a blue hair band

then she stopped dancing and asked her friend

Do we have to be in love with our partner?

The girl with the whale continued dancing and replied dreamily

I’m in love with mine

The Week In Review

Last Thursday
Email from Chanel Lady telling me that I was not chosen to cook for them this summer – Hoorah!

Email from Desperate Lady needing an emergency cook next week - Hoorah!

Friday
Decree Absolute at The Crazy White House
CWH Lady and I had a brief and unsuitable relationship, like one of those Britney Goes To Las Vegas ones. Once I’d announced that 'we could no longer go on with this madness', the last weeks of our affair became a peculiar tentative marriage of convenience, I needed her money and she couldn’t imagine surviving without a cook. I tried to be honest and constructive about why we were not meant to be but ended up saying a lot of ‘It’s not you it’s me’ kind of things like:
The British are so innately slovenly, I could never achieve your high South African standards*

there were so many things that I couldn’t even begin to say to her.

Smell is so important, yet I repeatedly fail to acknowledge this: Household odours are very distinctive; a mix of foodstuffs, heating source and cleaning products combined with children, laundry (often dirty) and pets; this household’s particular mixture set me on edge the minute I walked over the threshold.


Saturday
My husband comes to London and submits to weekend of eating, visiting curio shops and art galleries, concedes that cinemas seem more comfortable here and that it’s fun to look at art and other people and sundry weird stuff, says he will think about making second visit later in year.


Monday
Baby Sister and I meet up, I am initially drunk merely with freedom from CWH Lady, but then we go to Italian restaurant and try the Prosecco...

In the evening I make another attempt to appreciate Chekov, Three Sisters at the Lyric, Hammersmith. Am I the only person who finds this man an utter bore? The reviews called the production Lively, Modern and Bold, I saw irritating people moaning around a table and left at the interval.

Tuesday
Visit my cousin, we go for beans on toast at nearby café, he is blind and I suddenly become acutely aware of roadworks, wonky pavements full of deep puddles, stupidly placed bollards and dog shit.

Wednesday
Turn up equipped with supper for Desperate Lady (new client), she just wants nice food on the table. Her house has an Aga and a woodstove and smells of rice pudding, it makes me ache with pleasure.

I made an Easy Chocolate Mousse
Bring 300ml double cream to boil, take away from heat and add 200 grms of broken-up dark chocolate (70% cocoa), beat together until all chocolate melted.

Transfer mix to a bowl set over another bowl of iced water and add a further 300ml of double cream, whip up into soft peaks

at this point, personally I would stop and eat this now, but if you want to make a mousse out of it beat up 2 large egg whites in a separate bowl until you have stiff peaks, pour in 100 gm sugar gradually, beating all the while until you have soft meringue, fold this into the chocolate mix and eat as soon as you need to.

* that is quite true, I routinely have to clear a festering beast or toxic substance, such as lead shot, off the work surface before I can roll out my pastry, it is very easy to leave an upper class British kitchen in better condition than I found it.

Cut Myself Shaving

On Thursday mornings I go over to my local day centre for elderly Asians where there is a yoga class in the lounge before the serious telly-watching gets under way, we do lots of corpse posing and we're supposed to be breathing but I keep getting distracted by the smell of chapati-making in the adjacent kitchen.

It must do some good because I always come away feeling very chirpy and want to tap away on my laptop, trouble is, in an attempt to smarten up before yesterday's interview I shaved the bobbley bits off my coat and nicked my fingers with the razor

taptap ouch taptap ouch

Has everyone already seen this? - love Bill Nighy, bloody Blogger has sliced the edge off though!



Join the campaign

Swimsuits In The Kitchen...

My days with Crazy White House Lady are nearly done and I have been looking for alternative employment. Agencies are sending me to meet potential clients, today I went to see an archetypal Chelsea couple who want a chef for their summer residence;

I had a very early appointment, Madam showed me in to their apartment, her Chanel suit made me think of the way I decorated birthday cakes as a child, her make-up and coiffure are solid enough to last a month if necessary, eyelashes mascara'd like black gerbera daisies, hair appears to be a safety feature.

She talks in the loud confident tones commonly heard in Harrods and at the better ski resorts. Her husband, grinning at her side, interjected occasionally;

People will come through the kitchen in their swimsuits you know

I will want to come in picking at the food – you have to slap my fingers


But mostly we are silent while she talks at length and I get lost in the details of the room and things like her fingers and earlobes which are encrusted with round knobs of jewellery, I suddenly heard her saying

...I move the table around a lot, sometimes it’s at one side of the room, sometimes the other and I often have it put out on the patio, there’s lots of tableware ...and flowers I love doing all the design...’

When it was over I walked up the road for breakfast at the Victoria and Albert Museum and ended up staying in the building until it was time for my date with CWH Lady.


Later I checked the small ads
This was one I thought I might go for

LADY REQUIRE FOR COOKING FOOD AND BODY MASSAGE

we are looking for a lady who can cook indian food for 1 time + body massage.

can be around 21-26
urgent require,
pay=£250 for cooking + £50 for transport between zone 5-6 + 150 Body massage.

Top Tip: Peel The Base Off A Saucepan In Just Several Hours

Put a pot of beans on then go to sleep. This has the special bonus of making the house smell funny.

Pot Heads

The Australians reckoned that having come as far as England they might as well 'do Europe' while they were at it, they have disappeared, leaving me alone in the Pop Flat with Felicity. It feels like we're doing a middle-aged remake of an 80s comedy series.



Felicity gets back every evening from a job that she loathes, she deals with the horror by smoking her way through a large amount of marijuana, then she gets really hungry and prepares a late feast – usually something involving lots of vegetables and rice. The only pot big enough to hold the quantity of food she thinks she'll want to eat has part of it’s side broken off along with one of the handles. There's a lid from a different pot that sits on top of the one-eared pot and I've got rather fond of the sight of this odd pairing.








So imagine my sadness the other day when I saw that the mismatching lid, had broken in half – but it's ok - I’ve mended it, we only had string and sellotape in the house, I think the string will work best.

News From The Pop Flat

From Monday to Friday, I live at the top of a house in London. When I moved in at the beginning of last month, the lower floor was occupied by Half a Pop Group and their recording studio, they also have a Child who slept in the room next to mine - I’d just got used to the Child sidling into the room where I happened to be and giving me a good staring. Then, ten days ago, Half a Pop Group took the Child, left London and some Australian musicians turned up to replace them and use the house and recording studio.

I’ve heard the piano playing and caught fragments of song, but now they’re moving closer. Today I heard high-pitched, wailey singing in my kitchen and knocking sounds, a bit like DIY, I wondered if a partition was going up.

I gave up trying to find a use for Facebook and went to investigate. A tall man with spiky hair was puffing away on a big joint, his trousers were really tight and short and very low slung, he must’ve bought them when he was twelve, I wonder if he loved them so much when he got them that he has worn them constantly and now he's grown and can’t get them off. he looked up and beamed when he saw me:

Hello Darling

Hi, you got everything you need?

Yeah Rockin’

What you up to?

I'm putting some drum tracks down

I can now see that the knocking noise is coming from a digital drumming device connected to his laptop, a girl’s singing drifts up the stairs.

They're busy - I’ve got to get out the way so I came up here

OK, d’you want some tea?

Yeah Rockin’

New Eatery - Opening Soon!

Over the weekend I took a tour of the neighbourhood with my man and we noticed that a restaurant we used to frequent had been renamed, there was a board out the front with the words BRING YOUR OWN written on it.

We looked at each other

Bring your own ...???

Bring your own ... money?

Bring your own husband?

then we got it at the same time
Bring your own dinner!

If it turns out not to be that kind of restaurant we have decided that we will jump into this obvious gap in the market - a restaurant for all those people who know what they like.

We're going to make it 'All You Can Eat' and 'Self Service' and for people who like buffets we'll have trestles for them to put their stuff on.

We'll provide the drink.

Lucky Dip Dinners

After my last post I thought about how I've often gone to countries not speaking the language at all and have simply pointed at parts of the text on the menu in the hope that I was choosing things that would end up resembling a meal.



This made me go and dig out the sketchbooks where I'd made notes in an attempt to try and learn from these experiences, a way to remember the words for 'cat giblets' or 'face of pig' for future reference. The page above was made during a typical 'point-and-shoot' dining experience. This was in Budapest in 1992, I had just got a degree in colouring-in from Brighton. Not knowing what else to do, I managed to get a grant to spend a term at the Hungarian College of Art and Design in Budapest, they didn't make me very welcome and refused to let me use the school facilities so I spent my days in the city's cheap eating and drinking places filling sketch books and taking photos. I dug them out this weekend and fell down a rabbit-hole of memories:





At the end of my residency, to fulfill the terms of my contract I had to put on an exhibition of my work, so I invited people to come to my room and look at these sketchbooks, one of the college tutors edited an arty magazine called Magyar Narancs and several months after I had left town he put a little feature in the magazine, a photocopy was posted to me along with a translation of the text to the left of the image


An Engish girl, taughened(sic) by the salty air of Brighton, drifted into the Trabant-smoked streets of Budapest. She sat into the low-flying bakelite, tiled Budapest; she was flying as a black butterfly between the battered houses. Her drawings, like the magazine illustrations of the thirties, are travel drafts about the magic. Metaphors, jotted down on mustard-stained grease-proof paper; cooked-sausage-sketches. Espresso-bar tables, Dobos-cake crumbs on them, are sweeped into the sketchbook.

The Tyranny of Choice

When I go to France, my favourite places to eat are the lunchtime Routier Cafés, frequented by truckers. A chalkboard outside states simply that there is a menu du jour, the price is chalked up and whether or not vin is inclus - no further details. I sit down, food appears, no looking at menus, no decisions, no effort – heaven!


I tried to get breakfast in a diner in America once and never did it again, the milk choice alone includes semi, demi, skinny, fatty, frothy, flat and not milk at all. By the time the waitress started on the bread list I just wanted to go home and put my own toast on.

Most people who hire me simply want the food to happen, fridge and freezer full and a lovely surprise on the table at dinner time – what’s not to like?

The Crazy White House Lady doesn’t see things this way, for her, endless choice is the point of money. Every day I make suggestions for her evening supper, all of which are rejected, then she leafs through recipe books, makes a decision and goes away - just for a while, I imagine her sitting on her bed all clenched and agonising;
mashed potatoes or roast or should we have rice ... do I really want my fish fried...?

after about half an hour has passed she comes back down and asks me to make a different menu.

CWH Lady likes the idea that she is empowering her five-year-old by asking him what he wants for his supper. This is a common scenario, when children are told they can have anything they want to eat they usually want the same thing day in day out, I make chicken and broccoli every day for this child but we still have to go through the ritual of his mother listing possible dishes and pleading with him to try something else, I watch the child during these performances and see that like his mother, he is torn by the anxiety of decision-making vs the enjoyment of all this power.

*I have agreed to stay another couple of weeks with CWH Lady, I fear that we have developed a sort of mutual Stockholm Syndrome

war poster found here

How Much Housework Is Too Much?

I thought I knew about obsessive housekeepery, I was raised in the sort of house where your coffee cup was whipped away for washing up the second you set it down - finished or not and we warned visitors not to stay too still if they didn't want to get dusted. My parents also like taking pre-emptive action against mess and wear, when I visited them over the weekend I admired my mother's ingenious Bacofoil candlestick protectors – no unsightly wax drips in that house!

I am serving out my final days at The Crazy White House (an average-sized 4-bedroom house, occupied by two adults and two children) which appears to exist solely for the purpose of being cleaned - I am wondering if it is, in fact an art piece or a scientific experiment that is secretly being filmed in timelapse to see how long it takes to polish, hoover and wash a house away. This is the regime:

Every day: at 7.30am Nadia arrives, she does breakfast and starts cleaning the house, she is there for 12 hours, by the time I arrive at 3pm she has started the second floor washing of the day.

Every Friday: a second cleaner arrives for the day and the house gets extra cleaning

Every Wednesday and Thursday afternoon: someone comes to do laundry

One of the reasons I am leaving the CWH job is that I fear that I have either fallen into a hallucinatory parallel universe or gone snow blind; every night before I go home I look around the kitchen, I have cleaned and scrubbed and swept the floor - it looks, to my eyes, dazzlingly new. After my first week Nadia said to me

You must make the kitchen cleaner before you go at night, I only have an hour and a half to clean the kitchen in the mornings when I come in.

Living Conditions II

The Half A Pop Group living situation suits me very well. It is the front half of the band that I am living with, she is the Sexy Vixen who sings and is in charge of everything - he is the cerebral-looking one with the guitar. They have a 3-year-old child and a recording studio in the house and a top floor flat which is almost self-contained, Felicity is the other lodger with me in the flat, she is a voluptuous woman in big skirts who laughs often and loudly and we share the flat with The Child who sleeps here and comes into the kitchen to stare at me or into my room to show me how to operate the television.

I chose the Pop Flat partly for it’s lack of stuffed toys, overflowing ashtrays and mad people but mainly because of the art, the Vixen’s family are artists and the place is full of brilliant pictures. As a household we all seem to find similar things tragic/funny and our Squalor Tolerance Levels are compatible.

Actually Felicity is hugely messy and when I return from making supper for OCD Lady the Pop Flat kitchen  looks like a war zone but I find this strangely comforting after an evening at the Crazy White House*.

I haven’t done any cooking in the Pop Flat since I arrived, the kitchen cupboards are a repository for the stuff Half A Pop Group couldn’t quite bear to throw out; assorted bowls, novelty egg cups and mismatched items of Tupperware, but no plates or ovenware and only one saucepan. The cutlery drawer contains forks, a large spoon, some gaily coloured plastic feeding spoons and used toothbrushes. When I get in from work all I usually need is a stiff drink, but on Sunday I’m getting a visit from my cousin so I have just gone out and bought a pot to cook in.

*BREAKING NEWS So much to say about Life in the Crazy White House but it was all too repetitively grim to relive on the blog, however I have just tendered my resignation so now I might be able to find the whole thing entertaining – and tell you all about it.

Living Conditions I

Currently I spend my weekdays in London and go back home for the weekend. Last autumn I house-sat a friends art collection in her swishy pad in West London for a couple of months. This was sort of great but also a bit tense, the immaculateness of the pale carpets and the fragile and valuable Works of Art made me nervous, I wore latex gloves and a hairnet in the flat and put paper on the sofa before I sat on it.

At Christmas my friend returned to guard her own art so I needed to find alternative weekday accommodation. I placed a couple of very brief ads asking if anyone had a room to let. I’m a bit out of touch with this sort of thing, but is it normal to reply to 'Accommodation Wanted’ ads with full details of one’s divorce arrangements?

This person (who gave no name or other indication of identity) lives about as far away as one could get from the area I specified

Hi,
I am living in canary wharf in a 1 bed apartment means 1 bed room and living room , if you need you can take my bedroom whereas I am happy to adjust in living room till march 1st week.

Amount will not be a problem , can talk about that if you like and see the apartment.

your comfort is my main concern

take care

thanks

I spent a weekend visiting the best of the proposals, all of them were astonishing in one way or another, one chain-smoking care worker showed me a tiny bedroom full of teddy bears, the rest of the house contained a lot of purple sculpted-pile carpet and was strewn with empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays. The next flat had a large splashy bloodstain in the hallway which put me off a bit. And then there was Polly;

Polly sent me a very long response detailing the fabulousness of her Chelsea apartment, the 'spacious living room' with 'gorgeous soft furnishings', the 'outside patio for barbeques in the summer', the 'well-equipped kitchen' and the 'vast bath for sumptuous soaking after a hard day’s work'. I was suspicious but I had to see it.

I found the address and tinkled the wind chime by the door of a basement flat, the door opened onto a small grotto-like space partitioned into 'rooms’ with thin bits of board, the smells of cat wee and mould were overwhelming. To hide the mouldy areas Polly had recently glued bits of brightly-coloured fabric over the window sills and skirting boards.

To emphasise the lack of space, the flat was decorated with strings of Tibetan prayer flags and crammed with garage-sale scavenged items, including 2 washing machines and a tumble drier. Polly had rigged up some wobbly storage systems to accommodate bread makers, coffee makers, kettles and assorted broken pots.

My first step through the front door put me in the centre of the 'kitchen’ which consisted of doll-sized sink, the two-ring, Baby Belling hob was set on the drainer which I didn’t notice at first because both hob and sink were covered over with saucepans and plates,
Look! she pointed up at one of the perilously crammed shelves
there’s an ice cream-maker - we can make ice cream!

Polly has many cats, they peered at us as she insisted I went into the bathroom, squeeze my way between the bath and sink and inspect the 'designer’ loo seat, the front of the lavatory was right against the back of the bath - to use it one would have to sit sidesaddle.

I’d been there 5 minutes, I was feeling very queasy and said that I had to leave.

I went out of the door and Polly followed me, in the rain, wearing fat pink felt bootees, this pale pixie-like person bobbed alongside me keeping up a stream of information about her health problems as I tried not to break into a run towards the station as she grabbed my arm, telling me to look in the windows of the local restaurants and shops so I could see what a great neighbourhood we were in.

In the early hours of the next morning Polly sent me a text suggesting that I could stay for the first month for free.

I resisted this bargain and have chosen instead to move in with half a pop group for a little while...

Nose Job

Second week of the new job and I'm still finding the going tough. I won't bore you with the details, I did that to a friend last night over a bottle or two of red wine.

I staggered home and tried to get ready for bed but tripped myself up taking my jeans off. I dropped on my knees then nosedived into the bedroom carpet, there was a crunch, then blood. Pity there were no spectators because it would've been very funny to watch.

I look like I've been in a fight, which is not a good look for an exclusive private chef.

Home Visit

The best thing about my new job is that I don’t do it at weekends. On Friday night after the now familiar supper pantomime, I headed for the station and a train back home to Bristol.

My home contains my husband (The Director) and his film production company, I used to work there too and all through last week, apart from missing my husband, my books and clothes and my own kitchen, I have been dreadfully homesick for my former colleagues, Miss Whiplash, the Camera Boys and all the cake and gossip therein.

I arrived at midnight to find the house full of panic over an impending deadline - a couple of Camera Boys worked with The Director over the weekend to get file transfers completed and another stage of a film production delivered.

Whiplash is stuck in Scotland and has sent a message to say that it is so cold that there is no point in even trying to go out - she might as well stay there, in bed with a friend or two to keep her warm, until the thaw.

There have been changes in my absence, a new Camera Boy was taken on just before Christmas, these were the main reasons that he got the job;

a) We really liked his hair

b) He’s a very sharp dresser

c) He’s so skinny that he pretty much disappears when he turns sideways*

It turns out that Slim Boy makes decent tea and is also rather good at all the digital stuff that needs doing, but an additional bonus is that his sartorial elegance is having an effect on the other boys, some of whom are now experimenting with hair products and interesting hats, it seems they are now spending their days discussing the relative merits of various hair straighteners and having wax vs gel debates.

* fascinating to observe, but also, as the house is rather crowded these days, a body that doesn’t take up much space is quite handy.



Weekend Bake Off
To restore my equilibrium after a week at the Crazy White House I spent the weekend baking and gave myself a gold star for a spiced fig, nut and orange tart invention, I’m pretty sure that it’s the sort of thing that can tolerate variations, so here's what I did;

• get some packets/handfuls of soft dried figs snip off the stalks and put to soak in dark rum and the juice and fine zest of an orange.

next day
• line a standard sized quiche dish with pastry (I added a tablespoonful of sugar to a basic shortcrust recipe) leave in the fridge while you make the filling.

• purée or chop the marinated figs and blend with the rum/orange liquor

• get a big handful (or two) of roasted nuts, walnuts are good, I combined these with some almonds and hazels, chop them and add to the fig mix

• stir in 2 eggs, a couple of tablespoons of honey, a grating of lemon zest, a teaspoon of ground cinnamon and half a teaspoon each of nutmeg and ground cloves and a pinch of salt.

• taste the mixture and adjust for sweetness/spiciness/citricity, when you think it's lovely enough pour into the pastry-lined dish.

• cook in a moderate oven ( 180 degrees centigrade) for 30-40 mins. The top should start cracking but if you poke it, it should still be soft

• put tart to cool

• melt a bar of good dark chocolate with a tablespoon each of cream and butter and some more orange zest (if you fancy it) mix well and spread this on top of the tart.

• When you can wait no longer, eat tart.

Communication Issues

My new client and I have been having hilarious misunderstandings this week, it is as though each of us is speaking in a language that sounds like English but is unintellible to the other.

Everybody’s version of a dish is unique but the first dishes I served in the Crazy White House weren’t at all what Madame had in mind. After a couple of tense episodes I suggested that Madame bookmark some of her favourite recipes in a few of her many cookery books, I would make these and thus get an idea about what sort of food they like eating.

The first recipe she handed to me is for ‘Spinach, Parmesan and Potato Soufflé’, I follow the recipe, it is delicious, Madame walks into the kitchen as I am withdrawing it triumphantly from the oven, she looks horrified, then tastes a bit and says;

It tastes of Parmesan, and it is green, I usually half the quantities for those things when I make it.

New Year New Job

The year isn't starting well, I have a new contract to cook for a household in a posh bit of London and there's something a bit creepy about it.

The house is large and minimal, the kitchen glossy white and very blank, it is a sort of conceptual kitchen, no evidence of food to be seen.

The kitchen has a long central island topped with a huge slab of polished white marble, it is like an altar, a chic metal fruit bowl is in the centre of this island. On my first day I look longingly at this marble but sense that it is considered a holy place so I go instead to a corner where I can prepare the evening supper semi-clandestinely.

I was asked to prepare the supper, leave it in the oven, then tidy up and go away. I finished my day's work and left no apparent trace of having been there, just as I was about to leave my employer came into the kitchen and ran her hands over the pristine surface of the marble, saying
This needs cleaning I can feel things all over it

Another Solstice

In my recent hunt for work I launched a multi-pronged attack - this time I included the use of agencies in my arsenal. Mostly these are an irritating waste of time but, in these straitened times, I felt that I ought to visit a few. They usually have quite grand-sounding titles and are located at an impressive address, I have been kept waiting in mahogany-panelled splendour but more often, lurking behind the impressive Kensington or Knightsbridge façade, lie stained carpet tiles and broken MFI furniture*

One agency has a name that makes it sound like a charity shop and is situated in a very unfashionable part of London. I made an appointment with Julie who is the sole employee and owner of the agency, she opened her front door to me and invited me to follow her up to the office. We picked our way along a hallway scattered with footwear and toys, then up the stairs and I was shown into the spare bedroom. The only chair was under a pile of laundry, Julie placed the stuff on the chair on top of the pile of clothing that was on the floor. I sat on the chair while Julie sat on a little step ladder. Agencies always ask you to bring lots of paperwork, I handed my papers over, then watched with fascination as Julie balanced a scanning device on one knee, a laptop on the other then placed my pages on the scanner which scraped and squeaked away for a while. During this time I was able to notice that Julie’s big toes had worn through her slippers and although her office didn’t have any desk space it did have an exercise bike, some full rubbish sacks and a lovely big stuffed rabbit.

Despite the apparent chaos Julie’s is the only agency that has found me any work, I start cooking regularly for a new client in London in a couple of week’s time.


Tomorrow I’ll have been married to The Director for ten years, I wrote about the wedding here, we’re going away to celebrate and I’m taking a short blogging break. I’ll get on with the next chapter of Earwig Sandwich when there’s something to write about.

Happy Solstice to everyone and if you celebrate anything else at this time of year - Happy that too!!


*The employing client doesn't visit the agency, the agents go to the client.

Interview Tragi-Comedies

I have been in the production office helping Miss Whiplash choose a new helpmate. We’ve been through this process many times; we place an ad, discard the many slovenly, illiterate emails masquerading as applications, a short-list is drawn up, appointments made and we wait to see what will appear before us.

These were our favourites:

1) The man who appeared to be auditioning for a part in 'Oliver'
Cap at a jaunty angle, he took up a stagey pose on the doorstep and launched into a prepared speech.

2) The candidate who chuckled away as he said
I go crazy if I have to write stuff, I manage to do the title and then I go aaaarrrgghhh (waves hands aloft makes horror face) and then I tell my girlfriend what I want to say and she does it for me.

3) The young man who glossed over the reason for the early termination of his previous contract
Whiplash pressed him: Was there an accident Julian?

Julian: N-no, no (long pause before adding quietly) not really

4) The man who completely disregarded Lovelock Style Rule No 475*
Shades, wacky bandana, multiple piercings and the bottom part of a ZZ Top beard

5) The shouty man
when asked what his responsibilities were in his current job, treated us to a 15-minute rant about his work colleagues

We have taken on someone who appeals to us very much but I’ve completed a survey on who we’ve worked well with over the years and next time I’m just going to write this advert:

Help wanted: All applicants should be able to make tea and deal with rubbish bins. Women should be fierce, men should be nerds with strange hobbies - funny hair a bonus in all cases.

*Lovelock was a friend and style guru, wearer of orange Paul Smith suits, man bags and highly polished footwear, he passed on many pearls of wisdom, rule No 475 pertains to headwear

Never have more than 2 crazy things happening on your head at once; big hair, big glasses – fine, but ditch the wierdy beard

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

image: work 289 by Martin Creed

By Friday evening I was feeling thoroughly bad-tempered, having spent the afternoon haggling with a prospective employer. I then fought my way through rain and dense London traffic to another meeting but I was late and missed the rendezvous. I ended up damp and out of breath outside Tate Britain feeling more than a little sorry for myself.

The classical façade of the Tate building is written across with a big neon declaration that EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT, a sentiment ludicrous enough to cheer me up immensely, putting me in mind of the final scene in Monty Python's Life Of Brian when rows of crucified men sing Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.


Inside, the Tate was hosting a series of events under the title Extraordinary Voices, I arrived in time to see two women trussed up in elastic dresses, each at opposite ends of a long gallery at the top of tall stepladders, they sang to each other through megaphones, it was lovely - like I’d imagine mermaids would sound.

And then I saw a long-lost friend - singing with The London Bulgarian Choir, it’s the sort of music that makes me weep – in a good way.





They’re worth seeing if you get a chance to catch them.

A Tale of Two Dining Tables

I returned to Bristol earlier than planned last week, just in time to see a bed being removed from the top bedroom which is becoming a second editing suite, the first editing suite was whirring with the business of getting footage prepared for the new editor.

At the bottom of the house a Camera Boy has been busy operating knurling machines and drills, metal shavings crunch underfoot in the the kitchen and the dining table has many tools on it. Carpets and furniture are glittery with the shine of metallic dust - Christmas simply isn't Christmas without it.

In the middle section of the house, The Director was surrounded by women and cake and was getting flummoxed, he’s spent the last several weeks in cars with boys and cameras and has forgotten how women carry on; Zena was in doing lion research, Mrs Moneypenny was getting the government-related paperwork in order and Miss Whiplash was unveiling her current collection of winter clothing. Last year it was floor-sweeping, furry filmstar cloaks, this season she’s channelling her inner intrepid-reporter via cream flak jackets and fur-lined underwear.


On Monday The Director flew to America to talk to people in the offices of National Discovery and I went back to The Smoke...

Last night I was engaged to give a cookery class at a private house in Hampstead, the idea being that I prepare tapas for the hostess and her guests while talking about what I’m doing, they join in with the making if they want, then everyone gets to eat the food - somewhere along the line the original intention was lost.

I arrived and was shown by a maid to the vast kitchen/dining room fitted with a big shiny cooker, double-sized double sinks and impressive granite work tops completely obscured by gadgets; 2 juicers, a breadmaker, a microwave, remote control units, toys, little bottles of condiments, jams, medicines and a footspa, there is not a handspace of work surface visible.

The kitchen is dominated by a massive table, covered with a cloth and decorated all along a wide central section with 6 big vases of flowers, dry fruits stuck on tall stalks, swirls of feathers, glittery pine cones and trails of beads and sequins leaving not quite enough margin around the edge of the table for the 14 place settings already laid out - there’s nowhere to put any food.


My breathless client had forgotten about it being a cookery demonstration. She talked very fast about all the dogs and children that needing taking to vets and flute lessons...

Are you ok to just carry on? Juanita can show you where everything is and help you peel things. I’ve got no idea how many people I’ve invited but they’ll be here in a couple of hours, I should be here just before and we’ll have a little champagne – will the food be done by then?

Job Hunting Blues

Earlier in the year it was agreed that I would stop working at the production company in October and do cooking for a living full time.

I am looking for work in London, a lovely friend has loaned me her apartment to use as a job-hunting base. My friends are concerned, they write to ask if I’ve found a job yet. This is one of my recent progress reports:

Dear Em,

I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while, London’s been a bit up and down, well quite a bit of down actually, and I’ve been waiting for an up before writing.

Last Tuesday I put on a smart black dress for an interview with a titled lady who needed a cook for business meetings. I spent 2 hours in a Holland Park basement listening to an aide telling me all about Her Ladyship's 'funny ways', she asked me no questions at all - not even about my axe-murderering past. I met the Lady very briefly on my way out.

Wednesday: a fashion company asked me in to cook a lunch for 60 staff members then totally sabotaged my efforts - I couldn't start before 10 am, they changed the menu, didn’t order what I asked for - it all became so bad it was funny.

Thursday: An aide to that fancy pants photographer Rankin rang to ask if I’ll come in and cook for a day (lunch for 20, top models, hysterical assistants - you know the thing) and will I lower my rate by two thirds!

Friday: cooked lunch for 10 vegans, 2 babies and a very bouncy dog, that went quite well actually - I think I even enjoyed it and they've just written to tell me that they thought it was marvellous!

This week all the meetings I set up have been postponed or cancelled, it’s also been a week since the monologue from the titled lady's assistant, I’ve not heard back from her - I guess she’s found out about my axe-murdering past!

Much Love
Lulu

Old Money, New Money, New Order

People with inherited titles are a subsection of celebritydom. Wealth and privilege seem to make most people peculiar but there are significant differences between old and new money, I've also noticed that the way people behave about food reveals a lot about their insecurities:

Many years ago I cooked for Kaiser Bill’s great-grandson, known to me as Prince Nicholas. The Prince's wife at that time had been a debutante and her teenage years were spent being groomed as a suitable marital prospect for Prince Charles, but Charlie went off with Diana so the deb had settled for Nicholas. This setback wasn’t going to be allowed to dampen regal standards;

At the beginning of each week the Princess would hand me a very royal set of menus, every day the meals involved lots of richly sauced game, accompanied by side dishes and desserts swimming in alcohol and butter - and there was always a soufflé, the weekend menus would require two soufflés in the course of one meal. Not that any of this was actually eaten, the Princess preferred to eat salad and her husband was watching his cholesterol, so the ducks, the soufflés and the trifles would come back to the kitchen untouched.



I have never yet known Old Money admit to a food allergy, they simply bark a command such as: Never serve mushrooms! or There must always be gravy! Popstars, models and actresses, on the other hand wear their food fads like identity badges. Working at recording studios I got used to serving food that allowed for various diets and allergies. There was a period when a great many wheat-and-dairy averse clients from California were staying at the recording studios, and the food had to get really esoteric. These were overlapped by an English band called New Order, everyone sat and ate together in the large dining room. After a couple of days I had a visit from the New Order boys

Can you do normal food? - shepherd’s pie would be great, or sausages, we love sausages.

Telling Me How It Is

My husband has finally come home after spending many weeks in Africa, he's been away for most of the year and I'd forgotten that our sartorial tastes don't often coincide.

I have items of clothing that he really dislikes, and I've been buying more in his absence. He is not a stupid man and never criticizes what I am actually wearing, instead he puts a lot of emphasis on the positive, I set off for an interview this morning with this compliment ringing in my ears

Now that's nice, much nicer than the cardboard skirt and fishermen's boots

The Luck Of An Attenborosaurus

A few years ago, during a BBC shoot in Switzerland, Sir David Attenborough arrived for a single day to narrate a piece to camera.

SDA has a reputation for having miraculous luck and one of these events happened on this short little shoot.

During breakfast we discovered that SDA didn’t have a blue shirt. For continuity reasons he always wears a blue shirt and the producer usually carries a spare but today no-one had a blue shirt.

The nearest town was at least an hour’s drive in a direction away from the filming location, a big logistical nightmare was brewing as we discussed the options.

On the way to the location we had to pass through a tiny town consisting of a baker and a newsagent, none of these unpromising-looking shops were open yet. But as we arrived three vans were parked and starting to set out their wares; a ladies underwear seller, a tablecloth seller ... and a man wheeling a rack of ladies blouses out of his van, we screeched to a halt, I snatched a short-sleeved blue blouse off the rail, held one against Sir David and said 'how much?

We were charged a ransom for a really badly made nylon blouse with buttons the size of cds but the colour was right and it saved the day.

Celebrity Gossip part I

Some of my readers are feeling toyed with, a couple of my posts have mentioned famous people and it is felt that I am holding back - I should stop teasing and start spilling beans.

I have worked for quite a lot of famous people but there are some problems with telling stories about them:

a) The people that I think are famous are probably unknown outside the UK

b) The best stories would get someone into trouble (mostly me)

c) Famous people aren’t necessarily gossip-worthy – hey guess what! David Attenborough is a really nice man and he’s not that keen on guacamole*


Ok - here’s a Paul McCartney story:
Macca was due for lunch at the studio where I was working, his wife Linda was coming too and we were all a bit nervous. The main door to the studio was also the kitchen door - my job was effectively cook/receptionist and I was trying to get the place tidied up before the celebrities arrived.

The rubbish bin liner was overfull and was wedged in it's container so I got one of the engineers to hold the bin while I hauled at the sack. We were at maximum strain when four things happened simultaneously:

1 the door opened and the McCartneys walked into the kitchen

2 the liner popped out of the bin and I fell backwards

3 a mouse was flung out of the bin, into the air landing briefly on me before running away

4 everybody screamed

then we all laughed, the ice was broken and we seemed set for a comfortable vegetarian lunch. During the meal Linda started getting a bit ranty about the cruelty of fishing. The engineer got the devil in him and changed the subject by saying how delicious my tart was - everyone agreed and made yummy noises, then he said

And she's not just good at veggie stuff, we all had a bit of the goat she killed last week and that was great too

I had in fact recently slaughtered one of my goats and shared it with my colleagues so I couldn’t deny this and the atmosphere went icy.

My punishment came the following week. Linda had recently expanded her range of pretend meat products (TVP sausages and mince) and she had written an accompanying recipe book. She sent some recipes to the studio head, asking if the cook would try them out on the studio guests and fill in reports about how well they went down. Everyone hated them and I had to bribe the testees with extra special cakes whenever I made a Linda Lunch.


* Actually I do have an Attenborough story – the last time I saw Mr A was at an event at London's Natural History Museum. Towards the end of the evening he led me through the museum’s corridors until he found the specimen he was looking for – He grabbed my arm and pointed up at a big old fossil and said

Look! Attenborosaurus Bakker – how cool is that?

then he said

Right must go - Goodnight!

and he danced backwards down the corridor waving at me as he disappeared out of sight.

God's Gifts

Light Man had spent the morning mending holes in the roof and would shortly be going out to re-hang the front gate that has been lurking behind the bins since it fell away from it’s pillar a couple of years ago. We’d stopped for lunch and during the pear and hazelnut tart* we discovered that we had all listened to the same Radio 4 programme that informed us about Kate Winslet’s need to wear a merkin while filming The Reader.


That prompted lots of hair/wig-related stories, including a declaration by Miss Whiplash:

That is one area I don’t have to worry about, I spend my life controlling hair everywhere else on my body but my lady garden is naturally neat – I like to think of it as God’s way of giving me a little treat.


*top tart tip – pound together some fresh thyme with sugar, put a spoonful of thyme-y sugar in your pastry and in the cream when you whip it up, thyme + pears = yum!

bearded couple image found here

Putting The House In Order

The production office personnel is suddenly expanding rapidly, Zena our Swiss warrior-princess has come back to help plan next year’s ant-filming, Whiplash is firmly back in the saddle and the Camera Boy now known as The Pepper King is busy practising his ballroom dancing moves in the kit room.

The filming team will be back here in less than a week bringing trolleyloads of kit and several million terabytes of material that will need organising in short time for an edit that will go on through the winter. It would probably be better if our building is waterproof, it should also be warmer than the outside temperature and there should be lights working in more rooms than just the kitchen.

For years I have been living in a state of denial about the steady deterioration of this house, fixing the kitchen lights last week activated the ancient law that states that 'once one thing is repaired you notice how much else is broken‘ – this is ok because we have discovered Light Man who has the power to mend things and is also extremely attractive! Today he replaced the panes in the sash windows that had cracks taped over with bits of gaffer tape, this necessitated Miss Whiplash holding onto his legs while he applied putty to the outside of upper-floor windows.


More Bad Hair
I have also been in denial about the steady deterioration of my hair and finally took myself for a haircut last week, I tried to visit Laura but her barber shop has shut down. I walked on and into a place that looked like a hairdresser's from the outside, it turned out to be run by boys wearing trousers belted below their underpants. I let one of them do something 'interesting’ with my hair. Then I had to go on further and find another hairdresser, one run by grown-ups who could make me look 'normal’ again, my hair is now several inches shorter but I no longer look as though I have escaped from an asylum - this is important because I am cooking for a new client tomorrow...

Passing Time

I’m back in the production office for a few days. Until recently it's been a hornet's nest of frantic activity here, all the parts of the filming team finally got off to Africa a week ago but then there were inevitably extra lorryloads of hard drives and cables to be sent out and lots of argy bargy about camp charges and filming fees, but Miss Whiplash sorted it all out and now it’s all gone a bit tum-ti-tum here - on the upside we finally have a chance to catch up with all the online horoscopes, Facebook and Guitar Hero.

When we’ve had enough of these activities, Miss Whiplash, the Youngest Camera Boy and myself entertain ourselves, and any passing guests, with tea parties and lunchtime events. Today a lovely man came and made the kitchen lights work - to celebrate we invited him to join us for lunch. YCB won several gold medals with his splendid stuffed peppers.

Light Man told us about his other job as a DJ;
I used to do toasting - but then I got shy.




I noticed a trendy new clothes shop today so I went in to investigate, I had a question to ask the sales assistant who was Welsh and very camp - I had to wait while he finished telling his colleague about someone he’d met at a party the previous night:
... well he made me really cross, I wanted to kill him and stab him and burn him.

New Porridge Invention

Yesterday I made porridge for breakfast and just as it was ready the phone rang, turning off the heat I picked up the call from my father. When we'd finished talking the porridge was lukewarm, I added a bit more milk to the pan and reheated it ... but the phone went again and by the time I came off that call it was lunchtime so I abandoned the porridge and went out.

Coming back later and seeing the pan of solid porridge I decided to test my husband’s assertion that everything is better fried:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...

Bubble and Squeak Porridge (loud applause please)









Served here with bananas, dates, maple syrup and cream, the crunchy bits are good, if it’s the wetness of porridge you object to, this is definitely a dish for you.