gin-nurtered time waster.
©Elsie Anderton,
The Babylon Lane Tales 2012
The Babylon Tales
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the almost award winning blog from Manchester
'Mummy, I have a complaint'
Being a finalist in the MAD* blog awards, I feel obliged to share with you some of my parenting tips. Tonight I am spoiling you with A Recipe. (Stop sniggering at the back.)
It's not the first time I've played forward my (somewhat stunted) knowledge of the kitchen, remember the jellymongering deviancy and love for Deutsche cuisine?
This recipe can be used to numb the pain of the days when your child prematurely tries to plan your funeral, when you have been bullied into singing pre-war songs in public while she's wearing safety goggles or when your house looks like it has been craft raped by Mister Maker.
It's been a strange, soul sapping kind of week. This is where I'm at:
I've spent years carefully cultivating an image of chic, understated style and sophistication. I consider myself, rightly or wrongly, to be one of the smart set. I think I'm ridiculously proper and an utterly upstanding member of the community. Clearly my smug, self-satisfaction and utter delusion could do with taking down a peg or two, but not from one of my closest (cough) friends, surely?
My whole Elsie-myth was shattered this afternoon, during a routine text conversation with Filedo. Evidently the only person I've been fooling is me, I must try harder.
Filedo: 'I've just spit my coffee over myself laughing at the Aldi advert. You've got to see it.. it is so YOU x'
This morning has started with the saddest news. A client of mine, who retired on Friday, had a heart attack last night and died.
It is all so pointless and unfair. I'm wavering between foot stamping anger and flooring sadness. He was a one-off and was larger than life. An old fashioned gentleman, his heart beat with a rhythm of pure kindness and generosity of spirit. His plans for retirement were epic and borderline mad,
I've been a bit quiet. Had you noticed?
I can't really explain the silence. We've been busy, but not so much that I couldn't share with you. I've done a lot of sitting (I'm good at that) and a lot of other stuff too.
This week I can just about manage a list for you. Here you go.
Something light, fluffy and pointless for a change.
I've been tagged in the refrigerator meme by Penny from the Alexander Residence blog (here for her great blog and very worthy fridge contents). Yeah, it's about my fridge. Get over it.
Now I would like to say that Penny tagged me because of my great culinary and cleanliness renown, but that would be a big fat lie. She tagged us (me and my co-slovenly-accused Kate from I am Wit Wit Woo) so that she could laugh at our domestic failure and scorn our fridge victims (more of them later).
I have finally relented to my inner-housewife. She is usually well hidden under fifty layers of slovenly-whore.
I am a slattern. Worse still I'm a domestic drop-out. A let down. A failure. Particularly when it has anything to do with that room with all the cupboards. You know the one with the special cupboard that gets warm and lights up (where I usually store my post)?
I am not fat. I know that, but my clothes hurt me. Really hurt. That can't be right can it?
I've spent six months blaming the washing machine, but that's not really right either, or is it? Not ALL of my clothes can have shrunk. We all remember my special wardrobe filing system - dirty, dirty but do-able, freshen with fabreze, clean. Clearly my clothes don't get near the washing machine very often. So unless someone is playing a sick clothes altering joke on me or my floor wardrobe system has a magic shrink setting (and I've toyed with giving these excuses serious credence), it's time to admit that I have put weight on. Not much, but enough to trigger clothes-pain and consequently enormous amounts of self-loathing. The process has taken a predictable pattern:
My slatternly ways are legend. I use decorations to hide the dust, allow the chickens to clean my kitchen floor (remember the choover? no? go here ), have created a floor wardrobe filing system at the non-door side of my bed and hide my paperwork in the, otherwise redundant, oven.
I have a confession to make.
It is unlikely to come as a surprise that I have failed at all but one of my New Year's resolutions. Yippee, the satsuma peel mountain is gone. One down, sixty million resolutions to go.
So, the general consensus is that New Year's resolutions are just a pointless exercise in self-flagellation. Well. Quite. Still you can count me in, I like to be included and love nothing better than donning a hair shirt and mentally beating myself with a great big stick once I inevitably fail. It's also a bloody good excuse to make another list.
gin-nurtered time waster.
©Elsie Anderton,
The Babylon Lane Tales 2012
The Babylon Tales
Promote your Page too
gin-nurtered time waster.
©Elsie Anderton,
The Babylon Lane Tales 2012
The Babylon Tales
Promote your Page too
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