This is the first Ina-less day I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I’m slightly withdrawing. I’m saying ‘erbs. And bay-zil. And I’ve been calling Pete Jeffrey. I’m currently writing this blog on my bed wondering if my friend Michael from Bridgehampton Florists is going to come through the door with some orange roses that I can put in a simple yet elegant vase. Pronounced vayze. I just had visions of my future, me delirious in a care home aged 80 something thinking I’m an overweight female food writer in New Jersey. I’m already mourning my dignity at the prospect.
Post work gym rituals interfere with Ina rituals, mind. It felt more autumnal than ever when I rolled up home nearly in darkness in a waterproof coat. Pete had beat me home from his gym. He is now a member of two gyms, one for classes, one for running and general gym use. It’s beyond indulgent I know, but if it means on these nights I’m rolling home after 8pm I get met at the door with a pan of boiling gnocchi and a steaming cup of tea, I’ll write the cheque myself. It was leftover tomato sauce and meatballs with gnocchi and half a pizza each. Sounds a lot, was a lot, but after 8 miles on the treadmill and 100 sit-ups I needed a substantial meal, and that I got. I also have to utilise these calories through body pump tomorrow morning at 7.15am, so its worth taking them on, I’ll get rid in the morning.
The body beautiful battle between Pete and I will rage forever I think. It’s the downside of the gayness. In one hand, we doubled our wardrobes and synchronised our libidos. One the other hand we have directly comparable physiques. Well, not really, we are different shapes. But we have a comparator we can look at. If I don’t like my thighs (and I don’t. I have the thighs of a middle aged portly greek fisherman), I can look at Pete’s thighs and see what I would love, long lean skinny legs. But Pete can look at me in envy. You never know, he may look at my backside and envy someone who has an arse that makes Jennifer Lopez’s look like a conservative little touche.
Got the last of my mum’s things to open on her birthday. Really thrilled with what I have managed to get for her. She has got me the Lakeland books to look through. Which is like an alternative porn for me. I’m looking for something in a piping bag set. Catherine has a Lakeland almost next door she says. And a T K very near. And a John Lewis. I tend to think she lives in Utopia. If Jesus were reborn I think he would live in Heald green, the other side of Catherine and Syl from the white people in the reggae band. I don’t think he would uproot them, as to simply describe them is a delicious exercise. We just have students one side, one of whom likes Green Day and erratically paced masturbation, the other side we have a man who urinates very loudly just before 7am. You can’t describe that as a delicious description.
But if I were Ina I would invite them over for a few lamb kabobs on the grill and be charming and call it a themed yard party. In my world it’s not worth being that charitable and inviting. Especially where students are involved. I’d rather keep my powder dry for the day I need to complain about the noise.
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