Escaping the TARDIS

This isn’t a metaphor. Pete is watching Doctor Who so I thought I would use this as a perfect moment to turn to my blog to blank out the am-dram-ness of this whole thing. It’s truly nonsense.
Since we last spoke (sadly its a terribly one way conversation these days. Darn you without your comments) I’ve been in a bit of an exercise frenzy as I prep for my Mexico hols. It’s a terribly exciting time. I have a new hat, new swim shorts, new shoes the whole shabang. I also have a sexy new green suitcase which will be very easy to spot on a conveyor belt. I purchased many said items at York outlet on a day out with MC and her gorgeous guzzling baby Zeke. My favourite thing about Zeke is he rather unintentionally follows the neighbours naming trend. MC had no idea Susan had a step son named Zeke, although I still mourn the fact she overlooked the obvious namesake she should have picked-Clive Gibbons.
I am so tired today. I have had 2 nights out in a row. I know, crazy. What am I, an undergraduate? I should be struggling to stay awake through Graham norton, not supping Montepulciano in an Italian restaurant next to Stephen Hendry asking my friends what Gonorrhea actually does to a man or woman just as a woman is eating her risotto to my right. (I got serious side eye for that one).


I had an incredible seared lamb with asparagus and veg. Very healthy I loved it. Alas the 4 liquors after and bottle of wine I drank counteracted our health benefit.
Saturday morning came around, 6 hours sleep managed. I’m like the reverse Thatcher in almost every way. I’ve never shut down a mine or robbed milk, nor have I declared war on a south American nation. And I require at least 8 hours sleep to even manage a polite conversation. But I rolled through it. I went to Legs Bums and Tums at 10, and felt quite perky. I even managed the whole exercise whilst a buff guy bailed out of aches and pains. All this, and I did a sneaky Body Attack before my Friday night out. My weekend exercise regime was on track.
My Saturday then resorted to my typical pattern. Radio 2, baking and planning my tea. I got a batch of pulled pork underway, and began soaking some oats in water and butter to try the Oatmeal Chocolate Chip cake from Shutterbean which a day later looks like this:

It’s a chewy, moist delicious beast, and the gift that has kept on giving during today’s post booze lull. Oats give it that satisfying weight which goes hand in glove with afternoons lying contentedly on the sofa weeping over films which ordinarily may just solicit a compassionate feeling. (Ok I admit it, I’m a big cinematic weeper. I cried just telling my mother about The Help.)
Now if I were to give this recipe my notes, not that I think myself worthy of critiquing a blogger whose site I love and whose podcast with the marvellous Joy The Baker has accompanied many an afternoon pottering, reading and eating, I would say I think it’s possibilities go beyond what we have here. Chocolate chips feel almost crude. I am already adapting this mentally. Banana and walnut oatmeal cake? Banana and peanut butter chips? Oat and raisins even. The obvious difference between Tracy and I is my lack of tiny humans. I was just feeding me and my lanky human, Pete. So I sassed up my frosting with a shot of spiced rum. Never a bad move.
So with this element of carb loading completed, we headed off for a night on the tiles. We were sat in the Great Gatsby beer in hand, 5 men over 30 at 8:30 and it was like a domino yawn, all of us mildly weary. We had to fix up, but the bar was inhabited by snooker fans ending their day and young hipsters starting their nights, and a volume so loud we had no idea what was being said inches to our right or left. So we went off to The Bath Hotel and the worlds bluest room. Blue walls, blue leather seats and blue carpet. In the coldest blue imaginable. Following a few drinks in the blue womb, we headed to the Washington and the weird and wonderful were in attendance. A table full of oddities all in jaunty hats. A woman in a gown sewn out of Spider-Man outfits. Love it. Drink downed, I was sharp. Anaesthetised to the terrible truths of Dempseys. We took the plunge.
They were all there. The creature mouthing the words in the cage. Like a human version of that Billy Bass fish. The nervous looking boys who dance together, one looking for a man the other looking for his friend to one day notice him. The overly drunk boys who think themselves the Kardashians of the Sheffield gay scene, pushing and shoving to assert their place center stage on the dance floor. The boy serving chips and curry sauce downstairs in a vest in a rather unsanitary fashion.
The latter is the worst, as I ate some. Such was my drunken hunger.
I wasn’t alone thank heavens.

The camper van you can see is the DJ box. It’s that kinda place. And I love it for it.
Today has been ok. Got up. Walked the dog with trepidation. Will I barf? Will I need my bed, stat? No was the answer. I was fine. So I went to body Pump. Same questions posed. No again. I was fine. So I popped to TK Maxx and did something we should all do- weary slightly hungover TK Maxx shopping. For £20 you get all manner of stuff. A pastry blade, a utensils holder, a rabbit jelly mould, pretzel flipz, digital scales and a tea towel. I went in for deck shoes and/or a laundry basket.
Homeward bound, lunch made, a wash out the machine and another on, chicken dinner prepped I sat down. I chose a film called The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I feared it may be a bit Hollyoaks but the trailer seemed cute. It wasn’t cute. It was a beautiful film. Affecting in every way I didn’t find Silver Linings Playbook moving. Witty, warm and touching, I thought it was a fantastic film about a young, tortured soul being accepted and finding some peace. I won’t go on, but will implore you to watch or buy. For ease of reference here is a link to it on Amazon.
Right kids, its 9pm and I’m shattered. In off to watch The Voice in bed. Gosh I find the judges irritating and the cliches are all out in force, but its still a good show. Plus I do love to watch a face from pop past come on, think to myself I remember them first time round then feel the crushing weight of realisation that they were last popular 15 years or so before. When I was at 6th form. I’m so bloody old.
Hope all of you are well. Don’t forget you can always say hello. I feel like a sad old person in a care home, no one ever stops by.
Blog later folks x
– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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