Here I am. Enjoying `Barnaby` on Mystery Channel when I hear a crash from outside. Pulling a coat over my PJ's and crutches on either arm, I open the front door to see....
The Neighbour from the house opposite. Perched high up in a tree in his garden......sawing away at the branch of said tree.....So what you say. Ain`t a chap entitled to do a spot of gardening when he likes. Yes, so true but factor in a few points please. It`s raining. It`s after 10pm. He is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts......boxer shorts with a very unimpressed willy hanging out the front......I don`t think he realises the risk of frostbite in a rather delicate area.
He waved "Good Evening! Just trimming the tree!" I waved back and said "Nice weather for it" and hobbled back indoors.
When in Rome do as the Romans do. I didn`t see a thing. Not even a willy.
Thursday 25 November 2010
The Invisible Something Or Other.
I wave a cheery "Good Morning!" to Madame Gomi ( Japanese for `rubbish`) Gestapo and turn to see next door neighbour staring intently at me. " There`s something different about you today!" she slides in between a yawn. " Have you lost the baby weight?" My baby is now the ripe old age of 3. I scan her face for a trace of that British trait I adore so much, sarcasm. The cupboard is bare. " No!" I reply pushing left crutch down to begin the Monroe cum Hunchback of Notre Dame hobble back to a warm, sugary cup of tea anxiously awaiting me on a tabletop. " Have you had your hair cut?" My gut reaction was to quickly round up the two greasy strands loitering over my right ear, back into the tatty scrunchy I`d herded my locks into earlier that morning. This was supposed to be an `out and in` job. Conversation wasn`t on the menu. Shaking her head,"I don`t know! Something is different about you today!" and strode off down the street, arms pumping air. `The something different about me` might have everything to do with the big white cast adorning my right foot and crutch accessories I now wear, non too proudly, around either elbow.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
Saturday 13 November 2010
The Kitchen Crusader.
A dear friend of mine once remarked, as she deftly produced a tray of mouth watering muffins that "Cooking is a science. Follow the rules and success will be yours!" Well, I stunk at Science in high school and I double stink at cooking. So much so that Tokyo Gas has been known to cordon off the area around my house whenever I so much as rattle a baking tin. I`ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen, cookbook bound back in a torturous position, gleaming shiny utensils at the ready but the end result is nearly always the same. No matter how accurately I weigh out the ingredients, mix, blend, stir, whip, spoon, beat or scream at it, the end result looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook. Okay, I hear you all say, trying desperately to be diplomatic and encouraging, the proof is in the eating. Uh, uh,I nod. But would you like to try something that looks suspiciously like a three day old turd from a terminally creature?
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
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