Don’t tell the children

So I took the title from the Chambourcey Chocolate Mousse adverts of yesteryear as I’m not telling Pete that I had four whole cocktails tonight. That’s right four. Amy and I decided to hit up The Old House on Division St on a Thursday cos that’s the way we roll. Well, she wanted to tell me about her holiday to the Dominican Republic and I wanted to tell her about Chicago and they have a fabulous happy hour. I got back home having waited in Nandos for take out and have been jabbering on to Pete ever since I got in.

The boy has learned tho. Much like dog owners and parents learn techniques to dissuade those in their care from engaging in annoying behaviour, Pete put the Apprentice on knowing I can’t stand people in programmes like that. So I have come upstairs and am blogging without my glasses. It’s hard without my vision being aided. Bear with me whilst I find my old chipped pair I kept for moments such as these.

Better. Right. So Nandos. I’m a bit more understanding of it now. Believe me, I get the fro yo thing. I just didn’t get the chicken bit. But tonight we had a whole chicken some rice and Chips between two of us. It was good, healthy and tasty. I mean, I could have spent for than £20 on takeout and felt fat at the end, I feel pretty ok at the end of that. And full. I get it.

Went to Body Pump this morning. Neither Pete nor I wanted to. It was pure guilt that made us go. I ended up pulling what I can only describe as my “Suits You” face with every squat due to my bruised tail bone. Imagine me, for an entire track which was a dance remix of Living on a Prayer, squatting constantly doing a surprised “ooh!” pout with every drop due to the pain of my bruised bum. The rest of the class got easier. I eventually came to about 3/4 of the way through the thing, until then I was in a daze. It’s weird, you just suddenly get a startled realisation you are in the gym, in a class, and the rest was done in a haze. I often think oh crap I’m here, I’m sweaty, I’m doing press ups. It’s such an odd feeling.

Straight to the office, where M C committed the cardinal sin of testing me if I wanted toast and not getting it me when I duly responded in the affirmative. Instead I had water and a banana. I did my final hearing, piece of cake. It was sad, tense and unfortunate. These things are never nice, never enjoyable. I get referred to as “him” and “That so called professional” and such like, all very worrying. You sometimes worry about how far the upset may tip people, and whether you should watch how you’re walking home, however, there have been no worrying reactions thus far, touch wood.

I popped to indulge in two dine for £10 from M and S for tea. Caroline Quentin enticed me with a tale of a 21 day aged piece of steak. Nowhere to be seen. Gone by midday it appears. Instead I got cod fishcakes, Chips, creme brûlée and my favourite Le Froglet Shiraz. In true camp fashion also, I bought satsumas and two advent calendars for Pete and I. You can imagine how much more drunk I appeared whipping two advent calendars out my bag than anything I ever did before. It reminds me of those times I would crawl back to my flat after a night on the booze, with a bag full of rubbish I’d bought from Sainsburys. Namely it would be pizza, yogurt, reduced crap like party mix or cold custard, malteasers and packet of Butterkist. It made sense separately, but when more sober and hungry no meal could be found amongst it. It’s like the nightmare edition of Ready, Steady, Cook.

Watched Nigella. How much will I be making the fruit tart this weekend. Very much so. Also how much do I want a bowl of sluts spaghetti. I love pasta puttanesca, I didn’t know that they were one and the same. Even more of an incentive to try. It’s Mme A. Shoes speciality, even Pete calls it an Anne Special when he sees it on a menu. She mentioned it a few times, I mentioned it when talking about Anne, therefore in both our minds Anne is now sat in her home on Plymouth constantly eating Spag Puttanesca. Bizarre, but still a happy thought. Carbs, Olives and Capers is no bad way to spend a lifetime in my book. The bit at the end with the chips and houmous was random, but worth it to see her in that trench coat that always makes her look naked underneath and with such massive hair. Gorgeous, and still mildly tantalising. They had two copies of Express in TK today. I have it, but I recommend it to those expressless chefs out there as it’s fabulous. Even if you just learn the recipe for breaded fish like I did, it pays for itself.

Right, a 6.30am start, one margherita, three mojitos and half a chicken make me tired. I’m off to the land of nod. Well it’s less nod, more comatose-esque sleep until time to moan at the alarm. Sweet dreams y’all and Merry Friday.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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