Shiraz, Sandwiches and Socialists

I write en route back to the office from a lunchtime visit to see Daphne. She is doing very well, thank you for asking. She is full on Westie-sized now, and has really found her feet when it comes to rolling in fox shit and defining her place in the living room through the medium of flatulence.
Today’s lunch was set to be rubbish, no milk, no bread, but I found a few tortillas. The left over guacamole and some cheese were put in the middle and makeshift quesadillas were created. Amazing. Will kill me, but fabulous. The dog never left my side in the hope of cheese.
We took her to see my parents this weekend, after the lack of visit over Christmas as my mother said I would “kill my grandparents” if I went. £10 for the person who can help me identify where I got my flair for the dramatic from. At various points in the weekend I said these phrases:
“No mother, Daphne doesn’t eat brunch”
“I don’t care if its an Elizabeth Shaw mint chocolate, it’s still chocolate”
“I really don’t think just because she is at your house she is expecting a bowl of cream”
I nearly went mad. I become an instant adolescent around my mother. It just happens as my mother still sees me as a boy with lots to learn, despite my being 32.
I also popped to Homesense. I didn’t get any photos. I did see a wicker poodle, but as I mocked it and got my photo out to snap it, as woman came across husband in tow crowing “it’s beautiful isn’t it Dave?” In the broadest Black Country accent. I had to leave as I feigned a coughing fit to cover my laughing. It will look lovely amongst their porcelain menagerie no doubt.
Last night I went to Les Mis with my friends Marianne and Ewelina and new friends Jackie, Lindsay and Beverley. Wined up we entered the cinema, only Lindsay and I knowing the musical at all. It was an odd experience as I was sat next to an Eastern European mother of one who sobbed at every given opportunity. Honestly, everything. One minute dry faced, the next Valjean is pinching the bishops silver, and she is weeping like I do when Ricky Schroeder tries to wake up a dead Jon Voight in the Champ. I have no idea why this was so. Maybe she hates to see people deprived of a tea service. Maybe she was concerned that the silverware was actually so not contemporary. It got progressively worse. Although I got increasingly upset as the emotion got worse. By the time Fantine was dead, the hot hot revolutionaries were waving their flags and Eponine was crying on the street with a teeny tiny waist in a long skirt surely impractical for a city with open sewers, I was in bits. By the end I was knackered.
I fear Daphne will one day attempt her own revolution. For the love of cheese, yogurt, toast and shortbread. She would kill anyone who interfered with or prevented her access to any of the above. Daphne found a string of cheese in my beard earlier. I feared a mauling, instead I think she loves me more, as for now at least I taste of cheese.
We are back house hunting in other news. We visited a house last night. Nice, but not the one. Too many compromises. Classic line from Pete when considering some questionable interior design choices “We’ll, they do look like vegans so…….” So I’m now contemplating what it is I want from a home. We have a shopping list which features ideals and essentials. Essential is scope for my dream kitchen with lots of cupboards for my ever expanding baking (and in particular Nordic Ware) collection. My dream kitchen is Simon Hopkinson’s on The Good Cook, open with living space so Pete can lounge with the dog whilst I cook on. This is the dream. In reality Pete will want to watch some Sci Fi bollocks whilst I want to listen to Johnnie Walker’s Sounds of the 70’s. The dog will be chewing its squeaky ball and will occasionally let off a silent fart that almost kills us. The blissful harmony won’t exist. I’m not a fool. It also won’t happen, as our budget won’t stretch to that square footage.
As long as we have a good sized garden and room for my KitchenAid, I’ll be a happy boy.
As for now? Said Sci Fi bollocks is Fringe. Time travel was exciting in The Time Traveller’s Wife, as it was almost real. Fringe? I’m lost. I was with it for 3 series but last year just confused me. Now I have no clue what’s gone down.
Netflix will have it later this year maybe I can catch up. Until then I’m writing for you kind folks.
Until next time, keep it classy. And Beverley and I would suggest that during this cold snap you don’t discount the Ugg boot. I’ll tell you what is so not A/W2012/13- The Chilblain. Or the snotty nose. I also love the scarf/glove/hat combo. I’m currently rocking a fingerless glove. Not just for Fagin.
Night night folks. Off to bed. Sleep well.
– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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