Gertsamtkunstwerk

Dream yoghurt

I think I have just found the yoghurt of my dreams - Rachel's Organic Bio-Live Wicked Wholemilk yoghurt with a choice of flavours: toffee with fudge pieces, maple syrup, apple and butterscotch, and golden honey.

I don't like all that low fat shit the supermarkets keep plugging, but I do know that bio-live is good, because of the friendly bacteria.

Yo! to Rachel

Organic milk contains two-thirds more Omega-3 fatty acids than non-organic.

We ♥ Omega-3

We also love cholesterol. there was an article in the New Statesman a couple of weeks ago, by Margaret Cook, a cardiac specilaist:

A high blood cholesterol is an ominous finding, and in many information sources on the internet you will find advice (usually Bupa-sponsored) about how to lower it through dietary changes and medication...

...Vast sums of money were spent on trials designed to show that adjusting diets to lower blood cholesterol would lower the risk of heart attacks. Alas, the research did not come up with the expected results. Cholesterol levels did not drop as expected; heart-attack rates were not reduced...

...The market for statin (cholesterol-lowering) drugs is flourishing on misinformation. There is ample evidence that they may lower death rates from heart attacks in some people, but cause damage in other systems, and possibly deaths from other causes. Recognised dangers are memory loss and mental confusion, increased risk of breast cancer in young women, liver disease and heart muscle damage by interfering with the all-important enzyme CQ10...

...Cholesterol has a role in enhancing immune function, and a raised level seems to be beneficial in the elderly. Clinical trials on drugs must have a narrow focus to germinate results, an approach which works conveniently for companies sponsoring their own statins...

...It is time for cholesterol to be rehabilitated as a chemical vital to functioning - one that we adjust too radically at our peril.

Full article

It could be a new put-down as diet-obsessed thin people with limited brain-capacity "Ah yes, but you're too thin to be intelligent." I think the wording needs to be snappier. (Not that I have a blanket prejudice against thin people, some can't help it, it's genetic, or their metabolisms or something.It's just those that brag about their faddish diets and how much weight they've lost and are too stupid to know how stupid they are.)

A matter of regret?

I have a sneaking feeling that I might have an allergy to beer. I think it might do weird things to my legs.

I floated this idea yesterday; Caz said 'would it be the sort of allergy that makes your legs buckle under after 28 pints?' No, I said, my joints felt really stiff and achy after just one pint on Monday lunchtime. Not too good after two pints on Friday (although that was clouded by the half bottle of wine and three Irish coffees), and not good at all after three pints on Thursday.

Last night I had copious quantities of wine - about three glasses before half six, and three or four after half nine. I felt decidedly squiffy, but my limbs are not achey.

If it is a beer allergy, it would be nice to have foundd a root cause. But if that means foregoing beer for the rest of my life, not nice.

Hmm, I seem to have imbibed like a fish over the past week...

Bagels

I'm haunted by a bagel.

I've been a sucker for bagels for many years. Mostly, smoked salmon and cream cheese. I've had smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels in very many places.

About ten years ago, I met up with someone who thought it was meaningful to go shopping in Fortnum and Masons and Harrods. Him, "Look at that wonderful selection of fresh cheese". Me: "There's more variety in Tescos in Brixton."

We had a snack lunch in Harrods. Oh the horror! I ordered a cup of tea and was surprised that it came with lemon. Not that I'm averse to lemon tea but there was nothing that suggested that would be the default option. And a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Which was disappointing. And, really rather costly.

A couple of days later, I arrived early for a work appointment so selected a cafe to kill some time. Coffee and a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Better service, better product, and half the price.

I have spent much of my life in search of the perfect smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Finally I found it. Very early this year. I looked at it and my eyes got bigger and bigger.

A typical bagel is perhaps five inches in diameter; this was about 12 inches. A typical bagel is a little chewy, this was closer to crispy. The filling was somehow, better than any cream cheese and salmon bagel filling I have ever tasted.

Three months have passed and I still have memories of that bagel. I want another one. It cost forty shekels, and came with an excellent cup of latte.

For the rest of my life, whenever anyone mentions Dead Sea, I will remember the 12 inch smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel I ate on the shores of the Dead Sea.

School meals

It's dinner money day

Oneof the things that irritated me most about being a councillor and school governor, and a schools auditor in neighbouring boroughs was the school dinners. The menus were generally unappetising even on the menu sheets. I couldn't really understand the rationale behind them; I felt that there was a lot of junk on there, which seemed an expensive way to fill kids up. I think there was a thinking that if you gave children healthy food they wouldn't eat it. Obviously, we all know that healthy food is a turn off to most children and to a lot of adults. I also know it's more diffcult in secondary schools when pupils demand choice.

But some of the schools with which I am familiar had/have two thirds of children entitled to free meals. I have no idea how many came to school without breakfast, but teachers informed me it was a significant number.

However, there has to be an element of habit-forming. Many kids arrive at school unable to use cutlery or to sit up at table. Put food in front of a hungry child, and, eventually, it will eat. One school I visited had a rule that forbid playtime snacks unless they were fruit.

Next stop, persuading the caterers at Valhalla* that there veggie menu is not acceptable. Quorn twice and pasta bake/lasagne is not variety, not appetising, and definitely not what I want. Mind you, when I had a look the vegetable tempura looked very nice indeed. Yet I never used the restaurant at Nibelheim**.

* Our new office building
** Our old office building

Saturday Culture, continued

After we had been to Closer, we went to Clapham's finest Tapas restaurant, La Rueda. Jimmy reckons he has never been there. I am sure we have been there together, he says it was the other one. Perhpas I went there with an ex-boyfriend, or perhaps with my brother and his then girlfriend, now wife. Whatever. It's a damned fine restaurant, although I find the shrine in worship of Sevriano Ballesteros to be slightly scary.

I proceeded onto the Royal Festival Hall for the last episode of the London Philharmonic's Beethoven Cycle under Kurt Masur.

On the menu were the Eighth and Ninth Symphonies. The Eighth is one of his lesser symphonies, possibly the afternoon off of a genius. But it;s all relative isn't it? I am comparing it to the Fifth, sixth and seventh that preceded it, which are truly great and innovative works of art, and th eNinth which followed, which is sui generis, and I currently feel, is the greatest piece of music ever written.

The Eighth was highly enjoyable, a polished and flawless performance. Haydnesque, I would say. The young chap next to me was a tad confused and asked "Right, so, erm, that was the Eighth?" I agreed and explianed the Cycle concept. "But that's really just the warm-up?" I hesitated for a moment and firmly nodded with an emphatic yes.

There are not that many pieces to which Beethoven's Eighth could be considered a mere prelude.

But after the interval was Beethoven's Ninth. It is obligatory to mention the soloists - Christine Brewer, Carolin Masur, Thomas Studebaker and Alaistair Miles - but I do not feel it is especially a 'soloists'' piece. The four singers are essential as an ansemble. A poor, or even mediocre bass could mar a performance, and a superb soprano is required for a glorious soar at the climax.

But of course, we always forget, Beethoven's Ninth consists of four movements - well, I reckon five, but Beethoven said four - whose word do you accept. Possibly movements 1-3 are the most underrated symphonic movements ever. Utter utter genius, but much of the audience is waiting in tenterhooks with baited breath for the arrival of the soloists to herald the start of the undisputable greatest symphonic movement, ever.

Kurt Masur conducted the first three movements at a spanking space. Herbie+, I thought, thinking about the favourite interpretation that I have in my collection. Well, to be honest, I didn't think much at all. I just wallowed, utterly absorbed, in sumptuous music performed better than I have ever heard it performed before, live, recorded, or broadcast.

And the soloists arrived and the fourth movement begun. Utterly beautiful, utterly all-embracing, goose-bump causing. I suspect already that this will be one of my performance highlights of 2005. Alastair Miles gave a performance at least equal to the great José van Dam as i have on CD. Christine Brewer, one of the most talked about sopranos of the moment was utterly gorgeous. And the lesser parts acquitted themselves well.

I have just attempted to play my CD and have realised to my horror that it is totally worn out. I thought CDs were supposed to last for ever, allowed to be smeared with Marmite and stamped into the ground. Admittedly I have had this CD fourteen years and have played it so many times. But, i am just waiting until Amazon's server gets its arse into gear before I order a replacement

Chateauneuf de Liebfraumilch

I like wine, me. I'm not an oenologist, which is a shame because I like that word. I often like words with diphthongs.

I know what I like, and when I'm not sure, I can take a reasonably good guess by pricing alone. Trip to Oddbins today. Ten bottles of wine, came to just over £70. I would have liked ten bottles to come to £150, but one has to draw a line.

I love the sound of the cork being pulled - pop! I love the glug glug as the first few drops enter the glass. I love to smell the cork, smell the wine, let the first sip tumble over my lips. I know by the smell when it's going to taste tart. When it tastes tart it does something to the nerves in my mouth that feels like I have a steel rod in my jaw.

I generally avoid anything that says Chardonnay on the label. Not because I dislike the Chardonnay grape. Far from it - Chablis is Chardonnay. What I try to avoid is mass-produced bottom-of-the-barrel troisieme cru vin de table distilled from grapes grown in a soil unsuitable for the chardonnay grape being passed off as potable. I'm probably missing out on some good wine there, but I would rather miss the good than piss good money on the piss-poor.

Is there anybody who can honestly say that they like Chateauneuf de Pape and Liebfraumilch?

Weekend TV

While we were out at the curry house I managed to record two programmes simultaneously on Sky+. Ooh, it's so exciting. One of the programmes I recorded was that night's Prom. It carried on recording after the finish, eventually giving up the ghost after about four and a half hours. I think it must have read the finish time as the finish time of the evening's second, after midnight, broadcast.

I then watched it on Saturday afternoon. I'm not sure what I think of this instant reaction that BBC4 has been running, where you can contact the programme by email or text. Friday night seemed to be just a show of national testosterone as various males - Charlie Hazlewood - metaphorically allowed their tongues to hang out at Anna Netrebko. Not surprisingly - she is a bit of a babe. And I did really like her dress. She's in Rigoletto next year, with Paolo Gavanelli, who is totally fab in the DVD of this production, and Piotr Beczala, about whom I know nothing. The other cast includes Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Rolando Villaz�n. Yum, yum...

I really enjoyed the first half - a nice mix of songs, but I found it very difficult to sit through Shostakovitch's Fifth. I'm trying, honestly, I'm trying, but...

My Lord and Master then watched Crystal Palace lose at Portsmouth. With just one point, they are firmly anchored t the bottom of the Premiership. Of course, he claims it's early yet - last season they looked like being relegated until an amazing late run.

And United are still indifferent. Indeed when Bolton went ahead in injury time I shut my ears to Final Score and deleted my text messages, so it took me half an hour to find out that David Bellion had equalised - although it was originally credited to Smith. It was good to see van Nistelrooy back, even though he looked like a duck out of water (well, makes a change from a horse, then!)

We then settled down for the Last Night of the Proms. We ate dressed crab from the fishmongers, followed by a gorgeous Rick Stein Baked Haddock with mussels and spinach, and roast potatoes. Unintentional entertainment came from Alan Titchmarsh's patronisingly stupid comments. I know Charlie Hazlewood isn't everybody's cup of tea, but his knowledge and enthusiasm is astounding. Titchmarsh assumes that the viewers are all thickos. Perhaps the dolt who put Titmarsh in the presenter's chair thinks the viewers are thickos. It always fascinates me why they put the first half on BBC2 and the second half on BBC1. That having been said, I didn't think the first half was that great a programme. Although Thomas Allen was magnificent in Vaughan Williams' songs.

The second half - accompanied by strawberry cheesecake and fresh strawberries - was to be expected. Half of me really hates it, the other half of me thinks it's all a good laugh. I do wish arseholes like Titmarsh would cut the crap about 'it's not jingoistic, it's not xenophobia, it's just rollicking good patriotism'. Just shut the fuck up Titmarsh. Please allow your viewers to make their own judgements. It's none of them, IMO. It's certainly not patriotism, which, as well as being the last refuge of the scoundrel, is a bit more than waving a flag and having a jolly good sing-song to some old familiars. I found it fun looking at all the different flags on display - as well as the Union flag (did Arsemuch call it the Union Jack - ignorant fucker), and English, Welsh and Scottish flags and the Royal Standard, I also spotted Irish, Manx, French, German, US, Australian, New Zealand, South African, Canadian, Norwegian, and Brazilian. There may have been more.

I did like Thomas Allen's little list (re-written by Kit Hesketh-Harvey) - violinists in wet t-shirts, pianists who retire just because they've got their bus pass and teenagers who can download, email and text without getting out of bed.

On Sunday, whilst eating stilton and broccoli soup, we watched the latest episode of Adam Nicholson's Atlantic Britain, which is a little gem of a TV series. This week it was mysticism in the West of Ireland. Oh did we giggle at these idiots climbing Croagh Patrick in bare feet!

We then watched - salmon en croute for me, moussaka for him, followed by a luscious sherry trifle from Tesco's Finest range - Mystic River. It took a while to get going, and it left me feeling rather uncomfortable and disturbed. I would highly recommend it if you want something a bit more than mental chewing gum. It's the second film we have watched recently starring Sean Penn, the previous being 21 Grams. 21 Grams is a very confusing film, and again, very intelligent and thought provoking. I have to say for years I have dismissed Sean Penn as the former Mr Madge with a reputation for disagreeing with photographers, but if these two films are any indication, he is becoming one of my favourite actors. Mystic River also had excellent performances from Tim Robbins, Kevin Bacon and Laurence Fishburne.

Jimmy then watched The Van, which I had taped for him a few weeks ago. I didn�t - it got just two stars in the Radio Times, and I don't watch 2 star films. It is said to be the least of Roddy Doyle's three filums. Although his watching of the film took until eight o'clock, the start time of a programme I really wanted to watch, I was unperturbed, because I had it recording in Sky+. Then, when he went to bed (and dreamed about vans), I could do a live rewind on the programme I wanted to watch, whilst also having it recorded to the hard drive. I thoroughly enjoyed Domingo - A Musical Life. I'm not divulging what my dreams were last night...

Okay, how many different categories does this post fit into...

The Yob Culture

Robbie, one of our local licencees, was saying to Jimmy the other day that here proposals to prevent pubs from selling cheap booze. I have to say that I'm sceptical, but, reportedly, it has been tried in Aberdeen.

I'm sceptical because it goes against sacred free-market principles. Besides, the pubs it would target would be the likes of Wetherspoons.

However, I have an alternative proposal. In my view, people who appreciate proper drinks are unlikely to maraud through the streets. So, in the interest of public order, I propose the following.

A pint of lager to cost no less than �5. All kiddy-pops - Breezers, WKD, Smirnoff Ice etc - to cost no less than �5. Shots of vodka, JD, Rum to cost no less than �3 per 25ml.

A pint of Real Ale, or a shot of gin, whisky/whiskey, or a bottle/glass of proper wine (ie not Liebfraumilch, not Generic New World Rubbish, not Generic Chardonnay) to adhere to market prices.

I know, I know there are flaws in this, but it would start to differentiate between those who drink to get drunk, and those who actually appreciate what they're drinking...!

How to fuck up a good business

Over the years we have been to Brixton's Satay Bar frequently. I have also been with friends and even colleagues. For various reasons it's been a few months. But we went back last Friday. Our farewell appearance.

We walked in, and I checked that the kitchen was open. The waitress practically sneered at me for such a question. I noted, but did not process, the signs saying "Friday and Saturday DJ Open til 2am". Jimmy checked it was Happy hour - no, not for fifteen minutes. He tried to persuade her that it was Happy Hour - but she said no, it's the till. Which is rubbish, because the order is kept on paper until you ask for the bill at the end. At ten to five she told us to hurry up with our order; the kitchen's closing. Then she condescended to take our cocktail order.

We used to sing the praises of Satay Bar cocktails. Admittedly, it doesn't help when the glasses are hot out of the washer. even so, unlike former times, we had no sense of there being any alcohol in the jug. and the fruit juice tasted cheap and processed.

I ordered my favourite dish, Udang Jahe. When it came, it looked unrecognisable. Just a few prawns shrimps on a bed of boiled lettuce. Jimmy's chicken had a faint taste of fish, which wasn't what he ordered.

And then, to crown it all, the 'DJ' decided to do a sound check. Into the previously quiet space came the most godawful noise. I sweetly asked the barstaff if they stocked earplugs. Again they sneered at me. Three separate couples came in between ten past and twenty past five and asked about food. Kitchen re-opens six. We left very quickly, rather than is our habit to order another jug, or a champagne cocktail. As we left, they condescended to open the French windows - about time too because the internal temperature must have been 27 or 28 degrees.

Later that evening I threw up. Mainly rice. The next day I had the squits so bad I took a precautionary packet of Immodium to The Proms - Immodium I bought for Cuba and never used; that I took to Egypt and never used. Jimmy had the squits on Saturday night which turned to a never-before-experienced painful bloated constipation that left him with energy to do little but recline on the sofa for all of Sunday.

Not only are we never going back to the Satay Bar, I would strongly recommend that no one else does, either.

Speedblogging

I must get back to this blogging.

Great weekend, thanks for all your kindness. Two lovely meals, one at Sarastro and another at our favourite Chinese, Chuen Cheng Ku, plus a fair amount of drinking, lots of sleeping, and a film Something's Gotta Give. We' seem to be participating in a mini-Jack Nicholson Festival this year, having seen As Good as It Gets on the TV and About Schmidt on Sky Box Office. During the film , my phonenever seemed to stop vibating with text messages so I was surprised, angry and relieved to read that Manchester United won a last-gasp 4-3 after being 3-0 up.

I haven't really being following the news, partly because my back and shoulders seem slightly strained so I'm trying to ease off home computer use, and partly because the internet connection at work was farked, but am I right in saying that Senator John Kerry McFadden has won in the Bush? Psssst, don't tell anyone, but were I to change my name on marriage I would be called Gerry McFadden....good reason not to change my name....

And it seems that my political masters have set up a new agency named after a modern form of Calypso. Oops!

Incidentally, I believe that the deaths of the Morecambe  cocklers to be desperately sad. I do have strong opinions, although, of course, no easy solutions, but this is not the place to air those opinions.

EU bans Thai chicken

EU bans all Thai poultry imports

I've been struggling all evening to find the wording for the witty remark. Instead I'll play it straight.

I would wager any amount of money that this will significantly affect the sales of chicken curry, Thai style from the supermarket ready meals counters. There will be people who will only read half the panic.

Doesn't affect me, I'm more a yellow vegetable girl.

Yum Yum!

Last Tuesday

We went to Tatton Park. Mother suggested, if we wanted to eat, we should head for the Knutsford end. Not the Rostherne or Mere end, which is where I would live if I was a footballer. Mother had explained to Jimmy that Knutsford was famous because Elizabeth Gaskell had lived there. I was quite unnerved as we drove in to see so many places - tea shops etc - named after Cranford, which is her most famous book, but in my opinion Mary Barton is the best.

We drove into the Park - the old Park, by Tatton Mere, in my opinion one of the most beautiful places ever. I'm not expecting you to agree, it's bound up with some complex childhood memories - being forced, against my will, to go out for invigorating walks on Sunday afternoons and risk missing the Top Twenty (later, Forty) on the radio. Still, the memories are positive. And, bizarrely, I was reminded of a song I have not thought about for years Forever Autumn by The Moody Blues. Many years ago, when being anxious about missing the Top Twenty I watched a flock of migrating geese and I thought:

I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky
And one by one they disappear.
I wish that I was flying with them
Now you're not here.

One view of the mere and that song was in my head!

We walked the length of the mere back to Knutsford. It was beautiful. And incongruous. You feel that you're in the country, strangers walking their dogs and their well-swaddled children say hello. In the distance a double-barrelled shot gun echoes around. The noise of the invisible jets leaving Ringway. Then we see one, enormous, and so low we can almost touch it with our hands, and in the next blink it's above the clouds that hang over our heads. It snows, but that's okay; by the time we get to Knutsford we're cold and hungry, and the snow has long stopped.

And we find the Portofino restaurant which has a fine setting in what appears to be an old Coaching House, and serves fine food at amazingly low (Lunchtime prices) and an excellent Chianti - just the ticket. Pavarotti sings in the background

We wander around the main street of Knutsford. I have decided that I want a pair of Fuck-Me boots. When I would ever wear black suede knee-highs with a three inch sheer stiletto, I don't know. But I desire. Jimmy suggests we go in a shoe shop. In my walking boots, and wind swept, I refuse. I'm not having some snotty Cheshire shop assistant patronising me. Jimmy obviously doesn't understand. But humours me.

We walk back along the mere, now an invigorating walk in the descending frost and declining afternoon. On the way back in the car, I ponder a question which has been unresolved nearly thirty years - what is the mere in the hamlet of Mere called?

We walk round Altrincham looking for a restaurant. there are loads of them, incidentally. I fancy one called Il Pagliacci, but, bizarrely (and somewhat reminiscent of Cuba) it is shut for the holidays. In the end we decided on Francs. We return to Mother's, and get a taxi out again. Bizarrely, the taxi-driver is Tunisian, not a nationality you expect to encounter in Altrincham.

The food in Francs was gorgeous. I had Tartelette Lorraine and Bermuda Triangle. Do not hesitate - it's some years since I've eaten there, and it was superb then, and is superb now.

Food glorious food

The standard of food encountered on holiday was exceptional. I twice ate frozen cod-and-chips - once on the ferry - and they weren't bad as far as such food goes. The breakfasts at Fort William's notorious Ossian's Hotel were appalling. Otherwise, we ate splendidly.

The highlights were Crannog in Fort William - a sumptuous feast, unfortunately we chose the halibut, not realising it was farmed; Uig Hotel - a luxurious South African run epicurean delight, where the giant prawns - langoustines - were caught by the waitress's father; Ee-usk on the North Pier in Oban (no website) - where the food was exquisite and the view terrific; the Water's Edge Restaurant at the Tobermory Hotel which was exceptional, and prides itself on locally sourcing wherever possible; and the Lodge on Loch Lomond

Hon menshes should also go to the Myrtle Inn in Callendar; Grog and Gruel; Ferry Inn, Uig - good food, let down by being understaffed; Oban Inn - minus point - it has no Real Ale; MacGochans for its Mull Cheese platter and Atlas ales; and the Village Inn for its succulent sandwiches and Fyne Ales.

Together with some good quality soups etc at Visitors Centres and so on, I can safely say that the nonsense spouted in the Press about British food being crap, except for in swanky West End restaurants is just wrong.

Fish

I haven't forgotten that I asked you all to leave me questions, and I 'm supposed to be answering them. The sharper of you may have noticed that I was doing them in order. Most of you will be thinking "Er, what, when..." The Scarier, Duckier among you may be thinking "Fish."

Such a simple question "What's your favourite kind of fish?"

Oh, the questions are dead simple, it's the answers that are so fecking hard.

I mean, I love fish. I would happily eat fish every day. Indeed, I more or less do. Friday: Wetherspoons cod and chips. Saturday: King Prawn Delight from the curry house. Sunday, a microwave steamed salmon and pasta dish with prawns and green pesto. Today - a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich, and the almost obligatory Prawn Mayonnaise.

I hated fish when I were young. But so what - there is usually no significance arising from one's childhood. I developed a taste for prawn and mayonnaise sandwiches during Sixth Form, and in adulthood I steadily developed my fish tastes. For many years, it was salmon. I don't remember having smoked salmon until my cousin's Christmas Party in Peckham when I was in my mid twenties.

Salmon became so boring, so predictable, and, truth be told, with most of it coming off farms, so dull. I realised trout, that special treat, was much the same. There isn't many fish I haven't tried - from kippers to snapper, from salmon to swordfish, from turbot to tuna.

I don't go into a restaurant and say "Mm, I'll have the sea bass." Whether I'm cooking at home, or dining in a swanky restaurant, it's often the sauce that attracts more than the fish.

Don't tell Jimmy this, but, to me, one fish tastes pretty much like another!

Fluff

Lori says:
Here are some light and fluffy questions for you:

I say - I was looking for fluff, not existentialism (my word of the week)

"What's your favourite film of all time and why?"

I find it difficult to choose between TheSound of Music, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and The Shawshank Redemption - trailer

Each of them is very different. I watched the first as a child, the second when embarked on womanhood, and the third only a couple of years back. One is full of happy happy songs and chaste love scenes, and great scenery. Two is dark and stunningly erotic - I had a big thing about Daniel Day-Lewis at the time and would have had about Juliette Binoche if I had been inclined. The third is set in that most ghastly of institutes, a US prison in the 40s-60s.

What they all share is a triumph of the human spirit in adversity.

The second time I saw The Shawshank Redemption was on a flight. At the breathtakingly beautiful scene with Andy playing the Mozart record, I felt a tension in the plane. There were 12 channels to choose from, but a critical mass was watching that. Palpable.

Jimmy wasn't. He explained 'I never watch a film twice and I refuse to see that four times.'

"Does anything really scare you?" There's nothing that I have an unmanageable phobia about, although plenty of things I'm not keen on - birds indoors, dogs etc. I live in an urban area with a problem with street crime. I walk round with over £1000 of geek gadgetry and jewellery, and sometimes I get sick with fear of being mugged. Even popping out to Happy Shopper for a pint of milk and a packet of fags can send paroxysms of fear coursing through my veins. I rationalise it as similar to the fear of going on a roller coaster. The darkness of the countryside would scare me, too.

My most scary experience, ever, was when I thought our plane was beinghijacked.

"What is your ideal holiday location?"

Somewhere with a variety of good food and wine available. Sea I can swim in. Interesting sites. Although I have been to the States (twice) Egypt, and Cuba, the one that meets the above criteria best was Mojacar in Spain last year, but, pleasant though it was, it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Probably overall, I would rate Egypt this year because of the overall combination of so many factors. Ultimately, anywhere with Jimmy. The two countries I would most like to visit are South Africa and Chile, a somewhat ironic change from the boycotting days of my youth.

"Marmite or peanut butter?"

True confession time. Soon after my father died, my mother and I guiltily, but with relief, threw the peanut butter jars out of the kitchen cupboard. We missed him dearly, still do, but the peanut butter.had.to.go.

Marmite. Mmmmmmmmm.

The perfect cup of tea

How to make a perfect cuppa

For me, the perfect cup of chow would probably be Assam, made in a ceramic tea pot, poured in a china cup, with milk added first, no sugar. I actually prefer semi-skimmed to full fat. The tea has to be of a dark colour.

Generally, I drink Sainsbury's or M&S teabags ina mug, with the hot water poured on, a bit of stirring, and the addition of semi-skimmed milk.

My Lady Grey I drink weak with no milk or sugar.

the day thou gavest Lord is ended

He went to the pub to watch the football. I couldn't. I stayed at home and cleaned picture frames. I can't bear the football at this time of year.

So what if we're now Five points ahead with two games to go. They've got three matches and they can get nine points, so we have to get five to guarantee winning the Championship, so that really means six and therefore we have to beat Charlton at home and Everton away. Everton who are looking for a place in Europe.

This is English Premiership football. Either you're interested so you know exactly what's what, or you're not, and thus unlikely to click any link I might provide.

Ten years ago - ten years, it's like the blinking of an eye - when we won it for the first time in my lifetime, and Harriet and I sipped champagne out of Manchester United mugs, I thought that it would cease to matter: Holy Grail achieved, mission over.

But I'm ten years older and a few days wiser, and it still bloody matters.

I rustled up a stunning little meal, and I have to say I was jolly proud. A starter of pitted, spiced olives (from the Greek deli in Brixton), M&S Irish soda bread and Kerrygold, a main of Marks and Spencer Fish pie and Tesco sweetcorn, and a pudding of M&S zabaglione, washed down with a bottle of Tesco Chianti Classico Reserva (you see, Lyle, I am entirely promiscuous in my use of supermarkets). We could have had it slumped on the sofa on our laps in front of TV, but, no we sat up at table, with a solitary candle burning,
and "Classic Ads" on the CD, the table adorned by a small vase of fabric flowers.

We decided that we shall have, as "Our Song" Ella Fitzgerald's 'Someone To Watch Over Me.' Better than 'Strangers in the Night'.

Incidentally, 'Bel, I would be lying if I said that my posts yesterday were not influenced in some measure by your personal circumstances, but also by the posting of another blogger on my list; also by some risque banter in the week with the person I dreamed about, plus an ongoing discussion with Jimmy about why his ex-wife's infidelity led to their marriage ending, yet his frequent dalliances didn't seem to count.

Plus the damn annoying wet fish face slapping dream, which unnerved me.

What I did at the weekend

Not that it was work all weekend. There was the small matter of eating, as well. We got through five bottles of wine in three days, which is about right, I guess. Jimmy's gone home now, to look after his father.

On Friday we had Toasted Goats' Cheese with Blackened Sherry-vinegar Onions and Smoked Haddock with Spinach and Chive Butter Sauce.

On Saturday, we had Delia's marinated mushrooms, which aren't online, Thai Prawn Curry with Pineapple, and Sainsbury's Panna Cotta.

On Sunday, we had Sainsbury's Horseradish and Trout mousse with oatcakes, followed by Sainsbury's Orkney Salmon and Asparagus parcels, with stir fry spring onions, French beans and garlic, followed by Sainsbury’s Simnel Cake.

But I took no photos!

Tonight I am having a Sainsbury's Vegetarian Indian Meal for one.

Le weekend

Triumph, Gift, Good News, Live report from Carnage and Crazy Grand Prix.

My weekend - we went to trendy upmarket 3 Monkeys at Herne Hill. We had already been to the Satay Bar where I had two Original Gin Slings. At the 3 Monkeys we had two bottles of a South African Chenin Blanc, and Irish coffee and Irish whiskey.

I would highly recommend the food and ambience at the restaurant. They messed up on our order, forgetting our starters, but gave us complementary ice-cream. We will be going back but at very little change from £100 it will be for a treat rather than because we fancy a curry!

Saturday we thought that if the weather was good we would go to Richmond, but then we realised that the Boat Race might get in the way. Instead we decided to go to Dulwich Park because neither of us has ever been. But, we lay in until 2 pm, and went off to Il Ponte (formerly Ferrari's) at Crystal Palace. I had a big big big tuna pizza, quarter of which is sitting in my fridge! Also a bottle of Chianti and three Irish coffees (each). Later, much snoring was audible from the sofa.

I didn't take any photos.