Here I sit in front of the episode of Barefoot Contessa I always seem to see when I sit down to indulge in an episode. It’s the one with Stephen and Frank coming back from England with two seemingly empty suitcases to the Mac and Cheese. It’s ok, but after 181 viewings it’s tired.
So on Friday night we left work to do Body Attack and Body Pump. Yes we. Pete came to Body Attack. It’s aerobics. He hated it. It’s not to everyone’s taste I suppose. We finished, and I realised that the dinner I had bought was still sat in the fridge at work. Idiot. So off we trotted to the M & S at the station to pick up the exact same dinner, pizzas seeing as that was as much as we could be bothered to cook.
We sat down in front of Children In Need for an hour or two whilst eating, drinking JD and coke and just relaxing, all the time promising ourselves we’d definitely go out. I think secretly we didn’t want to, but once the idea is in your head, we felt obliged to follow through. So we dragged ourselves out of bed, got our disco clothes out of the wardrobe and headed back to civilisation, after a week long slog of gym, work, gym work. So off we went. Stop off one, The Harley. Some kind of ska/reggae night on. Dead as a whole, plastic glasses and those people who were there were vile scruffy soap dodgers with dubious piercings and shit tattoos. I tell you, not my sort of place at all. Except for the Sally from Home and Away lookalike. She entertained me. Albeit that was not enough to make me feel that the £3 entrance fee was not wasted.
Climax has lost something. A few years ago, it was a good night, had a bit of vavavoom. I used to look forward to it. I don’t know if it was the combination of the fact the venue stank of cooking oil, that the second room was seemingly stuck on a loop of lesbians singing Ironic by Alanis Morrisette, that the magic seemed to have died. When I used to go, there was always that mix of folk that seemed so hidden other times. I must admit, this time I didn’t see that. I saw endless students, endless 22 year olds and only a handful of people who were near my age. But I felt old. And I cannot be bothered, in an ageing generation, to feel like an elderly person at 30. It offends my sense of egotism to be the token ugly bloke in these circles, and believe me boys in the late teens and early 20’s rarely look at a 30 year old and swoon. Alas perhaps this is the time I realise something I realise every time I go out, that perhaps it’s not so much that the scene moves on without you, more that I’m moving on from what is called the scene.
I hate that phrase, the scene. It conjures up some image of people in a bygone era having a fantastic, swinging time. Immediately I’m transported to Studio 54 with Liza Minnelli and Andy Warhol. The whole idea of that phrase seems to invoke an idea that this is where everything happens, and it’s a place you go to see and be seen. To an extent that has to be true, but my god if what I saw on Friday is anything to go by, this is one class photo I’m happy not to be sat on the bench by the teacher in. And I can promise you, there are quite a few others who share my sentiment.
So Saturday was spent slightly hung over, but not too bad in the scheme of things. I had a quick peruse around town, looking for nothing in particular but a few christmas presents. So fast forward a few hours and to my return home, what do you find? A bag holding a t shirt by John Smedley for me and two massive tubs of……wait for it…….big reveal coming. Scroll down…..
MARSHMALLOW FLUFF! Yes that very ingredient that evaded me. I’m scared to open it. God only knows, I bout about a kilo of the stuff, I’d better use it. It’s scary seeming stuff. A marshmallow spread they recommend you blend with peanut butter. Sounds god awful. I’ll figure it out. The top is lovely. A woven, soft sea island cotton t shirt with longer sleeves to the elbow. Again, showing my age. I went for quality and plain, not bright, vibrant and with a big picture of a chicken on it or something. I only recently realised that moving on from vibrant print t shirts to plain ones was an older thing. I again didn’t realise I was getting on fashion wise. My Vivienne Westwood trousers, I thought, showed I was still fashion forward. Perhaps I’m less fashion forward than mildly conservative. Who knew.
So Sunday has been quite a productive one. I got up and watched my new guilty pleasure, Miranda, which had me laughing so much. I never knew how stupidly brilliant it was. It’s just awesome. Shit but brilliant in one swoop. I then put on my running trousers and ran, genitals always slightly exposed as is the way with running trousers, over five and a half miles to clear away my mental cobwebs. I then baked some sultana scones, recipe inspired but not fully followed by the Bake a Boo book recipe, and headed on out to Waitrose. Again, why. £50 lighter with a kilo and half of oxtail on my trolley. I do allow myself the treat of two packets of the cooking chorizo now. It will always be so gratefully received by Pete at least. The other thing to look forward to of course will be the stew I can make with the oxtail. I’m sure Nigella did something with it on kitchen the other week, that will be interesting research. I’m going to have to sneak that one in. Pete is a bit odd about meat off the bone, let alone if I tell him the sauce is flavoured by the marrow.
Right, currently I’m letting the flavours infuse in a lamb and date tagine for tonight. It’s cooked, I just need to heat it up. How awesome it is to be so prepared. Then we have fresh scones and jam for dessert. I’m such a good boyfriend. iPhone should be with me tomorrow, all being well. If so, I’ll charge the bad boy up, transfer my BlogPress app over andi’ll be set for updating on the move. Whoop whoop. That doesn’t mean I will be posting from the treadmill or whilst on a ten mile run. I’ll not inundate you. You can have too much of a good thing can’t you!
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