Gertsamtkunstwerk

Amuse bouches

A supplement fell out of the Radio Times. It was a Jamie Oliver guide to Christmas food. I quickly flicked through it and my eye was caught by something he calls Party Forks, which seems to be a suggestion for amuse bouches. I mentioned it to Jimmy, and he immediately said - oh, you can put them in vol-au-vents.

You cannot imagine how much that annoys me. Amuse bouches seem to be somewhat fashionable at the moment; vol-au-vents were fashionable sometime in the 70s. Okay, I know they pop up time and again on buffets, but I reckon that is so that a tiny quantity of ingredients can be disguised by a great big wodge of puff pastry.

I think there are some interesting ideas for presenting amuse bouches. Skewering them with forks looks fun - the picture that accompanies the article has a selection of non-matching foks with eye-catching handles. Other ways of serving that spring to mind include shot glasses, espresso cups and Chinese soup spoons. I suppose you can also use small saucers or ramekins as well as rather less exciting cocktail sticks and crostini.

But at home, when you're already creating unnecessarily fussy work by creating the amuse bouches in the first place, it seems silly to create even more fuss by stuffing them into a vo-au-vent case, which, basically has nothing to attract the eye. And some of the ideas for mini-appetisers should either be served raw or as liquid!

In so many ways that just sums Jimmy up. And it annoys me!

Pictures from the internet: if I have breached your copyright please let me know and I will remove the picture or give credit where it is due

Too many cooks...

I am a reasonably competent cook. I have some excellent strengths and I also have some weaknesses. My weaknesses include boiling eggs, funnily enough (but because I prefer to eat eggs in just about any other form that soft-boiled, I never practice...)

I think that I am actually pretty good at 'make do and mend'. I am a firm believer that 'rescue' is one of the most important aspects of cookery. If your sponge cake sinks, use a can of fruit and call it a flan. If your biscuits all crumble, make it into a base for a cheesecake or a tart. And so on.

I brought some prawns for today but when I got them home I realised that their use-by date was Friday. Now, this is where my personal habits aren't really good enough. If it were just me, I'd have kept them in the fridge and taken a chance. But I don't think it's right to force that risk onto Jimmy. So I stuck them in the freezer and forgot to take them out last night.

Again, if it were just me, I'd have stuck them in a sink of water to speed up the defrost. Instead, I consulted with Jimmy whether he would agree with me them sticking them in a sink of water to defrost. He did. He also suggested sprinkling some balsamic vinegar and some chopped coriander on them. I was thinking 'yeah, addition of balsamic vinegar isn't going to delay the defrosting'. I then thought that balsamic vinegar and coriander are big strong flavours that will really change the balance of what I intend using the prawns for.

It suddenly dawned on me that he was really jumping the gun. I tend to think a lot about food, try and work out what combinations to put together, and so on. He just has ideas off the top of his head and forges ahead. Which is fine when it's his turn to cook, but not so fine when it's mine!

Measuring spoons

Isn't it amazing that two people who have managed to get along pretty well most of the time for ten years can have arguments over the most ridiculous things.

Well, he thinks they're ridiculous; me, I find them very useful.

Measuring spoons. Yes, we have arguments about measuring spoons.

Years ago I got a set of plastic measuring spoons and plastic 'cup' measures (from a supermarket in the USA), but over time, components of the set got lost, and the plastic became very brittle.  I have very little need to measure my ingredients in cups, but I do find it useful to have measuring spoons.

I can't remember where I got these or how much they cost, but I am pretty certain it was next-to-nothing. I think it's dead handy they have a little chain, which keeps them together; you can use this to hang them on a hook.

He claims they are a waste of time. He says what's the point of measuring things - for example if a recipe calls for a tablespoon of oil, it doesn't require precision. I agree, almost entirely (precision is important in baking, but otherwise, no). But this isn't really the point.

If I'm making a casserole, a soup or a sauce, the chances are I want to add dried herbs and spices, or sugar, or any other small ingredients. I've got to use a spoon or something to transfer them from the jar to the pan. I might as well use a spoon which happens to measure the recommended amount. I know that precision isn't necessary, I also know it's important, ultimately, to adjust by taste. But I think you might as well start somewhere. He says you can tell how much you want just by looking.

My trump card- he thought that two teaspoons equals a tablespoon. He didn't know that 'dessert spoon' is a measure.

I think I win that one. In any case, I shall continue to use my measuring spoons, when it suits me, not because I'm enslaved to them

Feeling very pissed off

Seriously pissed off. I mean. And I know I'm not being fair.

I'm totally fed up. With Jimmy. The last day off he had was when we went to Valencia. That was before Christmas. He's managing a pub for laughable wages. The pub manager thing is based on the premise that managers stay on the premises, and thus the flat provided free of charge counts as payment in kind (it's kind of like an MP's second home, but rather than getting everything paid for, I'm pretty sure it gets taxed). Well, that's all well and good if you ever do in life is manage pubs for a pittance wage, but there is no benefit in having a pokey flat provided for free if you already have a house.

But that's not really the point. When he took the job, we agreed he'd be home most nights. Maybe not Fridays and Saturdays. Maybe not in the depth of winter when travelling the short distance seems prohibitive because of the extreme cold and general miserableness. We keep saying that he'd take most Mondays off. Properly off, I mean. Not the way it happens now, that he finishes at about three on Sundays, and if he doesn't return that night, he still has to be up to open up at 12 on the Monday. I don't think there is actually any custom on most Monday lunchtimes.

I know I am being totally selfish, but I am sick of this half-life. I am sick that we don't have any time together, no time to go out - I sit at home on glorious spring days, thinking ahead to yet another summer wasted. I start to think I would be better off single. I wouldn't really; I couldn't imagine life without Jimmy.  But I do think that I would be quite justified in having an affair. Although I can't be bothered.

I know that's the way pubs have always been run, but hasn't anyone noticed, 29 pubs are closing each week? There is  a reason why the big chains are prospering and the small personally run pubs are closing. No one in their right mind would run a pub on those hours and those shit wages. The business model is predicated on the landlord and docile wife making sandwiches in the back while living in a pokey flat. That just isn't viable in the 21st century. So, with the exception of Jimmy, most 'local' pubs are run by people who are happy to live in the past, be exploited by the breweries or the 'holding companies', not noticing that the licensing trade has moved on.

Am I supposed to put my life on hold? I seem to have all the lonely disadvantages of being single without the compensatory autonomy and independence. I am sick of him saying he'll sort it, he'll arrange to have Mondays off. The next time he has a day off is when we go to Paris. And I know what will happen there. This trip is already proving expensive - Paris isn't a cheap city, and the exchange rate began to plummet just at the point I bought the tickets (but before they showed up on the credit card bill). The five nights in a hotel has cost more than a two week all-inclusive in Egypt. We have yet to pay for food and drink, let alone excursion.

The thing is, there is very little point in him working. If I went back to working fulltime and he didn't work, we'd be better off financially. The problem is, he can't not work, which I understand. But he's working three times the hours I'm working for half the take-home pay.

And my resentment is building up. But it's not like a classic premise for a row. How can I blame him? How can I pretend it's anything other than my selfishness?

The Art of Seduction

This post may contain Too Much Information for some...

Last night, having watched The Royle Family and the Blackadder Documentary, Jimmy declared it was time to go to bed. I agreed.

Unfortunately, we are well past the stage of just rushing upstairs. I decided to run all the greasy plates etc under the hot tap to make the job of washing up easier when I get round to it. He decided to fold up the dining table and put it away. I asked him to lock-up back and front whilst I extinguished candles.

"Right, I'm definitely off to bed, now," he said.

"So I am, but I do have to put fresh bedding on..."

"Shall I help you?" he asked.

"Don't worry, by the time you've faffed around, I'll have done it anyway. You get on with shaving and all those other things that men do before a shag and I'll have the bedding done!" I said.

"I think I'll do the hoovering!" he declared. And proceeded to get out the vacuum cleaner (actually, a Dyson) and vacuum the downstairs carpet.

I asked him what he would think if he read in a newspaper problem page "Dear Deirdre, everytime I suggest a bit of whatsit to my partner, he starts vacuuming downstairs..."

He replied, there's a lot of weirdos out there...

What actually happened post-vacuuming/bedding-changing is a matter of conjecture, as far as you're concerned.

Malaproposim of the day

Gert: Why do you think I'm standing here? Is it so I'll look like a lemon?

Jimmy: I refuse to answer that in case I intimidate myself

Miscellany, including football

Things are slightly strange in Gert Cottage, with Jimmy currently being a man of leisure. He really needs the break; just looking at some of our holiday photos: never the most photogenic anyway, he looks spectacularly awful. Not one to relax, his idea of 'a break' is my idea of hyperactivity. Last week he repainted the hall, stairs and landing; next week, in my absence, he is doing the back reception (dining/computer) room. much preparation is needed, so I have spent most of the weekend sorting stuff, and we are now at the shifting stage. It all takes time. And energy.

It's nice to have a bit of football as a distraction. I think, anyway. I don't think I ever commented on the minor fact that United are through to the FA Cup Final. With the deepest respect to Watford, I never really had the major colly-wobbles about that one. I'm not complacent or arrogant, and certainly not when it comes to knock-out games, and my intelligence was contradicting my gut feeling. I was very disappointed when Chelsea beat Blackburn, and not just out of affection (huge!) for Mark 'Sparky' Hughes. I had a ghostly ghastly premonition, my blood running cold, at the realisation that Chelsea are on course for an unprecedented quadruple.

Oh, my boys like to suffer pain and suffering. Can you imagine the years, the decades, I have had to endure this? I have already blogged a bit - not enough - about the Old Trafford game against Milan. To take an early lead, to surrender it so sloppily, to feel my heart breaking. And the joy when they equalise, and end up winners .on the night. And then to go through the same thing again yesterday. Knowing that Chelsea were up against it at Stamford Bridge, and to see us struggling so badly at Everton - granted, never an easy away fixture. Then, first good reliable unglamorous John O'Shea gives up hope; then Phil Neville - of all people - gets an own goal (I wonder how much stick he got from Evertonians...and from Manchester United's currently injured club captain, er, Gary Neville...!). And then, when it was almost over, ex-Evertonian Wayne Rooney scores a spectacular goal. Sky commentators talking like it was all over...oh please, it doesn't take an accountant to work out that Chelsea are five points behind with nine to play for. Stealing shamelessly from Skuds - I can take the despair. Its the hope I can't stand.. Oh we have such an easy run in - Manchester City away, when the form book goes out the window; Chelsea away, which may or may not be the crunch decider. And, finally West Ham, who have shown a good run of form of late, and may well end up surviving if they win at Old Trafford.

And we have the return leg in Milan, when we find out whether we are set for the first ever all-English European Cup Final. Or not...See what I mean about the hope; it's unbearable.

It is strange sharing so much more time with Jimmy. It's nice that he's a lot less stressed out, and especially good that he is barely drinking at all. It's nice he sends me out to work with a lunch box, and creme eggs craftily inserted as an incentive to investigate my fruit bag! But we are back to the TV vs music conflict. It would be nice if he checked about putting the TV on while I have music playing. A couple of years ago he put the TV on. Pointedly, I said "I'm putting my earphones on," and he reassured me that my music didn't interfere with his TV. He knows it annoys me. He knows that the irregular noise of loud action films especially annoys me. It's a stupid thing to row about, but then, if I put headphones on, apparently, I'm like a zombie or a space alien. Or else, such as today, he moans because it then means he can't hear the music - silly me htought he was watching Arsenal-Fulham. I can't win, can I?

I have now upgraded to Thunderbird 2.0 (email programme), which seems like a downgrade to me. The spell-check no longer works, and it doesn't automatically consign junk to junk folders, so I keep being tempted by enormous cheques from the Republic of Benin.

And I keep forgetting it's April, because the daytime temperatures are hotter than July. That having been said, it is now very much Election Time of year, although not in London, and I know that mini heatwaves at this time are not unprecedented and may well be followed by miserable weather later.

And just for good measure, I have discovered the delights of Rapidshare, via the Yahoo Group, Operashare. I wasn't unaware before, but at first I had connectivity problems, then I found the free service frustrating in its vagaries. I then considered that the premium service isn't at all pricey. Yesterday, an 1981 Otello from Buenos Aires, today a 1968 Contes D'Hoffmann from San Antonio. Next, maybe a Pelleas with Shirtless, LHL and the lovely Gerald.

My man is cheating on me

You see the headline and you jump to conclusions.

You think this is going to be one of those angst-ridden blogposts about how my fiancé has been playing away behind my back, got himself a floozy for a bit on the side. Already, one third of you are turning away: we don't do angst. Another third has put the kettle on already, poised to make tea and offer biscuits sympathy. The final third are rubbing their hands in glee, knowing that for all the political blogging and cooking blogging and opera blogging and knitting blogging and walks-in-the-country blogging and erotic blogging, the best blogging is relationship strife blogging.

We don't do Valentine's Day. Numerous reasons, the main one being: we're not sheep, nobody tells us what to do, least of all when it comes to lurving. And not at that price. Flowers have tripled in price from last week to this. And in case you think we're miserable bastards. No, we're not. We love each 364 days a year (365 in Olympic Years).

But you know what that Miserable Bastard did before he went to bed? Gave me an entire bag of Rolos.

I'm in a lose-lose situation here, aren't I? If I eat them all*, it's proof that today I don't love him enough. Leaving one is proof that I am an incurable Romantic.

And he calls me manipulative.

How do I hate him? Let me count the ways...

* eating half the pack is not an option. Eating half of anything is never an option

Hurrah for blog...

Sorry about the non-availability of the blog for most of today. I was given sufficient warning by my host, but due to a major domestic crisis I felt completely unable to post to blog yesterday. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Suffice to say that I reached home at half past seven, tired, but not exhausted, only as tired as one should be after a day at work, looking forward to a prawn curry purchased from the absolutely brand new Sainsburys just opened a hop skip and jump away on Brixton Hill, bang opposite the bus-stop, and exponentially better than the three-month-old Tesco on the South Circular.

I opened the front door - which is a good thing, because last week, coming home from the Wigmore Hall, I didn't need to bother because it was already heart-stoppingly wide open - and immediately smelt a very strong and unmistakable smell of gas. I also heard the sound of unlit gas and went straight to the gas cooker, where one of the hobs was on, but not lit.

Let's just say that major words were exchanged, many of them sweary. I was petrified even to switch a light on until I was fully satisfied the gas had dispersed - by dint of opening the back door, something you really want to do on an cloudless November night /sarcasm.

I posited the possibility that I might have accidentally left the hob-knob on when leaving the house at nine-ish. If so, it is probably reasonable to assume that it would have been smelt at four-ish, the next time the house was occupied. If it wasn't smelled after being on for seven hours, there is a problem with the non-smeller. Alternatively, the house did not smell of gas at 4-ish, but did at 7.30, which suggests the hob-knob was switched on sometime in between. I was surprisingly not beside myself with rage: I think I was just numb with the shock of 'what ifs...'. And I made it absolutely clear that someone who risks the security of our home one week, and then risks our lives, not to mention that of our immediate and not-so-immediate neighbours, for the sake of too much vodka, has to take a very very serious look at themself.

About the only thing I did last night was watch a recording of the increasingly excruciating The Awful Mrs Pritchard, which is becoming more and more watchable for its 'so-bad-it's good' qualities.

My personal lowlight/highlight last night was the way they sit around in Cabinet Meetings like it's the coffee party after the Sixth Form Debating Society. No notion of briefing papers, pre-meetings, discussions in Cabinet Committees, one-to-ones between PM and Cabinet Ministers. And the almost total lack of officials.

The PM seems to have a total of three - the Press Secretary, where Jodhi May is admittedly rather gorgeous, the daffy bag carrier, and the token bloke, who manages to be, I think, Cabinet Secretary, Principal Private Secretary, and Chief of Staff, quite a tall order I think for anyone, especially one supporting a PM so utterly devoid of the ability to think through the consequences of any action, let alone think in any sort of joined up way or outside of a vacuum.

I'm in desperate need of Yes (Prime) Minister. Compare and contrast. I don't remember Jim Hacker spending a great deal of time in Cabinet.

Saying goodbye

After the final performance of Cyrano de Bergerac, I found myself irresistibly drawn to Floral Street for one last chance to say hello to Plácido...and bye - for now. He'll be back, in the autumn of next year, singing Siegmund in Die Walküre, as part of the Ring Cycle,  for which Ticket Acquisition Stress Syndrome (TASS) is already developing. I was not alone on Floral Street; to test out the setting on my camera, I took random shot into the crowd (which I have made deliberately fuzzy)

As you can see I didn't have a great view of the Stage Door, but at one point a woman emerged who looked remarkably like Angela Gheorghiu, and was greeted warmly by those of the crowd nearer to the door. She responded with friendly greetings in  a heavy accent that sounded like Angela Gheorghiu. So I expect it was her, as she opens as Tosca shortly, but I can't be certain.

Raffe was with me and has a different tale to tell, which she may care to share in the comments box once she is returned to and settled in the Frozen North (no pressure...!)

I did have to wait a long time, but, thankfully, the weather was remarkably dry. Eventually, it became clear that Plácido was doing what he did on Wednesday - sit behind the desk inside the Stage Door to sign autographs and so on, which is eminently sensible, as I said in regard to Wednesday. The security chap told us firmly to form an orderly queue on one side of the Stage Door, and because that was at the other side from where I was standing, I ended up near the back of the queue. Which is no bad thing, especially considering that the security man had emphasised that there was plenty of time, we would all get to see him.

Eventually my turn arrived, and I just asked him if I could take one last photo, and I thanked him for everything. What a wonderful performer! What a wonderful man! What a wonderful past few weeks! And I do rather like this photo!

That was not my only meeting with him yesterday.

Jimmy and I had gone into town fairly early and had braved the inclement weather to trudge up and down Neal Street searching for a new pair of shoes for me*. We then treated ourselves with a rather delicious and superbly Value For Money meal at Porters on Henrietta Street. I had white onion and cider soup, and the luxury seafood pie,  both  served attractively and hot in filling portions, and tasty, obviously made with excellent quality ingredients, in a pleasant and relaxed environment.

We made our way over to Floral Street; Jimmy decided that he would retire to the Nag's Head whilst I waited outside the Stage Door. I had calculated that as Plácido had previously arrived at ten past six for a half past seven performance, he would probably arrive at about twenty to six for a seven o'clock curtain. It was just about half past five when I took my position along Floral Street, closer to the Nag's Head than the Stage Door, hoping that the unexpected break in the unrelenting rain would last long enough.

And suddenly, there he was, magically appearing on Floral Street, looking as gorgeous as ever and greeting his fans as he walked along. He walked over to me, smiled at me and gazed into my eyes with a slight look of "You - again!" (but definitely not - oh no, not you again!) and shook my hand.

Having spent the previous two hours in a restaurant I was totally sloshed and thus I flung myself uncontrollably into his arms screaming "Take me,  I'm yours." 

Just kidding!

I was far from falling-over-slurring-my-words drunk, merely slightly lubricated to the point of shyness-and-inhibitions-slightly-relaxed.

As he turned away, tenderly I caressed his shoulder. He turned back to me;  in my best-disappointed-little-girl voice I said longingly "I'm going to miss you..." Once again, he gazed into my eyes and said "Me, too!", making my heart go boom-boom-boom. Of course he is a total  flirt, and also a total professional who treats all his fans with respect, but even knowing that,  it was such a delightful encounter, and I can safely say with no hesitation that he most certainly did not glare at me! Oh no! I will remember that moment for the rest of my life...although all I really remember is once again being startled at how gorgeous he is up close.

When he was inside the Stage Door I rushed to join Jimmy in the pub, simultaneously tossing a red wine down my throat, gabbling incoherently to Jimmy and frantically texting Faye, whose initial response was "What are you doing getting drunk at this time of day?"

At the very end of the day, when Plácido was seeing the last few fans inside the Stage Door,  a crowd was assembling outside Bertorelli's, probably to wave him goodbye. However, I had received a call from a somewhat angry Jimmy who had been forced to drink copious quantities of Hoegaarden in the White Lion - this time I had gone too far! (Diplomatically, I didn't do the 'oh, I held a gun to your head' gambit).  So I had to dash away to pacify him, and we had a tense journey back to Brixton. On the escalators at Brixton, I said "So, if he had walked past the pub when you were in there, or coming out, you would have assaulted him?"

To which Jimmy replied "Of course not. I wouldn't do that - and especially not to him. I respect him too much."

But I still had to pay! Later on, when Jimmy offered to go downstairs and get a replacement bulb for the bedside lamp, I vampishly said "When you return, how do you want me?" His reply "Preferably not snoring." And when he did return, and had replaced the light-bulb, I seductively said "Please undress me!" His response "If you can't even undress yourself, you're too far gone!" Ah, domestic bliss in Gert Cottage...

* I use to be a a great buyer and collector of shoes, but nowadays I almost need dragging into a shop to get some

Not the brightest button in the box

I love my fiancé very much. Hey, I might even marry him one day...

But sometimes, despite his massive intelligence, he does come out with things.

On holiday, we took an evening stroll along the beach in a southerly direction. The wind had whipped up a bit and was coming from the north. Being us, we paused to light a cigarette. Being windy it was slightly more difficult than normal. So Jimmy said,

"It's not so bad walking in this direction but we won't be able to light one when we walk back..."

Yesterday, we were watching Songs of Praise (desperate times call for desperate measures...). It was a Special in anticipation of St Patrick's Day. Although hosted by Eamonn Holmes on top of Croagh Patrick, much of the music came from various cathedrals in Belfast. Jimmy commented on the colouring of many of the youngsters - typically sandy hair, often with freckles, adding that if it were from the South they would look different - dark hair...

"Like me!" I said (I've often been presumed to be Irish)

"You have a reddish tinge to your hair," he said, in all seriousness.

"That's chemical!" I exclaimed.

"No, the Irish will always out eventually," he declared.

I never say anything stupid.

House Training

How do you train a man so that he actually turns taps off after he uses them, rather than leaving them dripping?

Ancient Chinese proverb: A nagging wife is worse than a dripping tap

Modern Brixtonese proverb: Of course I'm nagging, you have left three taps dripping...and we only have three sinks

A dripping tap could waste as much as 90 litres a week.

His response - the water board waste more than anybody. They should fix their pipes rather than giving the money to shareholders and getting everyone else to do their dirty work.

Holiday planning

Jimmy doesn't read books. I don't know why, he's just never got into the habit.

Despite this *never* thing, he is currently sitting on the sofa simultaneously watching snooker and reading a guidebook to Goa (who says men can't multi-task?)

He's reading snippets out to me.

"One ecstasy tablet - ten years"

Me: "Have you ever seen me with an ecstasy tablet?"

Him: "But a gram of anything - ten years..."

Me: "Sweetheart, you do know that I don't do drugs, don't you."

Later,

"Oh you should go to this place name of place. Apparently they cure mental problems." He thought he was being funny.

Perhaps it was his revenge for earlier when I said "Am I annoying you?"

He said "No, no, I just want to get these things done and then relax"

to which I replied, "I'm obviously not trying hard enough, then, am I?"

I'm going gay

This isn't anything to do with sexual orientation, physical attraction or any of that peripheral stuff.

The way I see it, if I lived with and shared my life with a woman, she wouldn't:

• take over three quarters of the wardrobe space with her clothes
• have ten times as many toiletries clutterng up the bathrooms as
• keep buying clutter and useless junk
• interpret "I might need you later on to assist with tightening the screws" as "Stand here lamely holding one bit of the thing I'm assembling and pull macho faces while questioning my ability to slot a few Meccano-style tubes and actively hinder my assembly of same"
• interpret "if you see anything of yours in the wrong place, I wonder if you could put it in the right place, please" as "Pick up copies of BBC Music, Gramophone and Public Finance and despatch them to recycling"

Mind you, she probably wouldn't go off in a sulk to the pub either. So, maybe living with a man has its advantages...

Confusion

Jimmy normally comes about three-ish. I am a lazy cow. So I rang him up to say I had run out of cigarettes, and he remembered milk was low. He absolutely promised he would be home by 2.30, but he was having a drink with Bobby. I thought it a bit strange, but I knew it was a big day for Bobby because he rescued a woman from the sea five years ago and she has spent those five years trying to track him down.

I wasn't best pleased when Jimmy came home somewhat the worse for wear. Rather than get involved in an argument, I thought I would have a bath, then I fell asleep on the bed.

I went downstairs and he was nowhere to be seen. To say I was angry was an understatement - after he had been saying yesterday he wanted to spend the afternoon with me. I rang him. No reply.

Next minute, my phone rings. I answer it. It's him, he's upstairs, in the spare room.

Feeling extremely stupid I go upstairs to the spare room, and he starts going on about it being his birthday. I'm thinking, it's not. If it was I would have bought him stuff. Actually, I was thinking, if it's Jimmy's birthday today, it means Tristan und Isolde is released today, and I think I might have noticed. But instead I said "It's definitely not your birthday; the BBC News website says 25 July, I would have got paid last Friday." Besides, if it were his birthday today we would have missed the Sevitz Braai and his great-nephew's christening.

He's managed to persuade everyone it's his birthday, not least his brother. He's had people buying him drinks. He's even had his son rob his till to buy him a birthday card.

I've told him he's had it now and not to even think about having a drink next week when it really is his birthday...

Update: I 've just realised that it's the fifth anniversary of Concorde crashing. Which means it's our fifth anniversary today...

Speed Dialling

I mentioned to Jimmy the other day that he was Number 2 in my phone's speed dialling memory. He was a bit pissed off, especially when, in reponse to his question, I said no, number one isn't my mother or my sister or my brother or my manager. I eventually confessed that 1 is Voicemail, a preset in the phone - like most, I think...

When I rang him yesterday, I said "Hello, my Number 2 man...!"

"Don't start!" he said threateningly*. "I'm number one. Get it! Number one, moi."

*mock-threatening, that is...but he does a damn good imitation of a numbskull threatening Sarf London geezer

Packing

Last Saturday afternoon in the hotel bar, some fifteen minutes after the desert chill had taken over the beach.

What he said "It will only take us ten minutes to pack"

What i should have said but didn't:

It will take you ten minutes to pack your clothes. It will take me fifteen minutes to pack my clothes, being distaff. It will take me ten minutes to collect and pack all those 'in common' things like chargers, guidebooks, beach towels, toiletries, medicines. It will take me twenty minutes to clear out the safe, check we have the tickets, distribute cash, travellers' cheques and cards between us, ensure passports are at hand but hidden. It will take me ten minutes to walk around saying 'you've left some aftershave and a t-shirt in the bathroom', to say three times - 'don't forget your trousers and shorts'

What I did say "I'll have a few drinks after we've packed..."

This is unique to us, right?

Ley lines

Well, not really what we argue about...

Over the years I have heard stories about people who have a body energy that causes washing machines and televisions to blow. I have never given them much attention or credence.

Until Jimmy moved in with me. It's so weird. He seems to have so many problems with the Sky+ box losing its satellite signal, with DVDs sticking and jumping, and, although he doesn't play CDs, I have a much higher incidence of CDs sticking and jumping when he is close by.

One day, I set the Sky+ to record whilst he was watching the cricket. I later watched what I had recorded, but it was unwatchable due to the frequent losses of signal. He was in front of the TV, I was in the other room in front of the computer.

I told him my theory the other day; he now feels paranoid...!

Man management

It all started a few weeks ago. My first three times back to work I came home to find him in varying degrees of insensibility from drink. The third time was too much, so I was a bitch all evening and then turfed him out of bed to 'sleep' on the sofa. Reformed character...!

He then got slightly miffed when I mentioned that I was going to a Prom on the Friday of a BH weekend, so I said it was an opportunity for him to go out and get drunk, with my blessing, so he did, but declared this morning that he's not sure he wants permission.

I said, it's okay when we get pissed together, it's okay when he gets pissed by prearrangement and I can get on with my life, but it's not okay if we have an evening together planned, and I'm hanging round waiting for him and then he's insufferable, because that's then my evening ruined.

Saturday was Bobby's birthday. I was invited but not really my scene. Loads more I could do, more enjoyable, than being with that crowd, mainly men, not my friends, didn't think I would be really welcome despite the good manners and civility of people.

He got in just after midnight. Fell in through the door. I sent him to bed. As he staggered up the stairs, he said "Don't ever let me out again..." As an afterthought, "And if any women come knocking on the door, don't let them in, not even Paula..."

"I won't," I said. "Besides, I'm listening to Pl�cido...."

"I suppose that's allowed," he said.

I think I'm winning, don't you?

NB No cars were used in the crafting of this post...

Swimming in the morning.

Whatever morning means.

And swimming.

That will be a Bwhahahahaha moment!

Jealousy

It's pretty pathetic, really. Everyone has a List, right. His list is Paula Radcliffe, and all of Adiemus. Paula was on the front of last week's Radio Times; Paula is dominating our telly on Sunday. And that's cool. I suggest if he wants to lose to his post-giving-up-smoking weight gain, he aims for the London Marathon next April, because *Paula* will be running. I'm encouraging that.

My list is Plácido. No one else. Yes, I like Trevor Eve as Supt. Boyd. Yes, think Cristiano Ronaldo is one helluva footballer. But neither is on The List. Not on the 'I'd Jeopardise our Relationship for A Shag' List. Everyone has to have The List. By having The List, you safeguard The Relationship...

Fiancé gets jealous. Yesterday's delPrado DVD is Samson & Delilah, from San Francisco 19 Eighty something. (The next one is Plácido in Aida - oy vey). I haven't viewed it yet. But I showed Fiancé the booklet, showing hunky Plácido not over-dressed. Fiancé makes disparaging comments about legs. I don't understand why. I say, said Hunk was instructed to give up football at age 60; I'd like to see fiancé play football at age 56, let alone 60. Some stupid comment about millionaires being allowed to do what they want, obsequiously. I suggest Cast vs Orchestra is not a friendly fixture. Makes Hand-in-Hand vs Sultan (my Road's annual grudge match) look like the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Although nothing beats the NAO's Unit B vs The Rest of the World match - which was ace to witness on the morning after just for the injuries....

Tell me, Ladies in particular, what is more manly - the one who gives up football at 60 on doctor's insurer's orders or the one who gives it the mouth at 56, that Sultan vs Hand is too easy for his fine physique?

Post smoking giving up, we are still in negotiations about Diet Tactics. It's P1 or P2 - run a London Marathon, or cut back on alcohol and desserts.

Y'know Fiancé is jealous of Plácido. I'm not jealous of Paula. I want Paula to win Gold.

Did you know that the Olympic Classical Album features Plácido and Adiemus?

Did you also know that the sun has sunk over the yard-arm?

Breathe in, breathe out

I'm thinking of starting a blog category called "Things that my boyfriend and I argue about..."

Or maybe, "Accumulated stupidity/arrogance that puts me in a bad mood..."

Yesterday I did a major tidy of the back room, and I mentioned that I intended doing the same for the front room. During the week we both need to find time to do the main bedroom. Please could he ensure that he tidies up his things from the front room.

So what does he decide to do - vacuum the bedroom. He takes a break, and while I have the very peaceful Rachmaninov's Vespers on the CDplayer, he decides to channel flick - 'Allo Allo, ghastly Sky News - so WHAT if Blunkett's in a relationship with a married woman. It's not news, it's just advertising for a notoriously salacious gossip rag. Then the Olympics "This scoring's very hard to understand isn't it?" Unspoken reply, "I haven't a fucking clue because I'm in another room, and, thus, can't see what sport is on the TV."

I was busy screwing the window locks back in, so he walks in and holds out "Some paperwork from under the bed...". Sub-text being 'drop whatever is it you're doing so you can take this paper from me'. Grrr.

And don't start me on the washing up. Exactly the same as my mother. They both go on like they are the angels of washing up. So, then, why do they both leave rings on mugs, dried up tomatoes on plates. I may not do it very frequently, but at least I do it properly. And I tend to have wash everything again before use...

The craft of arguing

Discussing Christmas...

Him: Sharm el Sheikh
Me: Acapulco

Random conversations over the weekend...

Him: Sharm el Sheikh
Me: Acapulco

With apologies

The male of species

Have you noticed how it is with men?

You set out to do a job. For example, cutting back the really thick jungular growth in the back garden. You, the female (for argument's sake) is up a ladder, cutting the fronds that cover the roof of the outhouse. You call out to the male, "Could you hold the ladder, darling, because I'm about to pull, and I might go backwards!" The next thing you know, you're on the ground packing black bin liners and the male is up the ladder.

You realise that the male is happily cutting away. "Darling," you say. "It's best to bag up as you go. It's the short straw and we don't want to be doing all the bagging up at the end."

Later still, you're out the front. "Sweetheart," says the male. "We need to cut that dog rose right back."

"We'll uproot it," says the female.

"We'll never be able to do that," says the male.

The female gets on with it.

The male expresses surprise at how the good the spade and fork are. The female points out that she is a Cheshire girl, plus she lived in the house for nearly five years before meeting said male. When she sees garden tools advertised as ergonomic, she buys.

Later still, the female carefully explains to the male. "If you take the time to put small bundles of greenery into the bag, it's quicker than trying to put an enormous load in all at once."

This rant is obviously not about any man in particular and very much about all men in general.

Do not underestimate the gardening strength of the middle-age, middle-class
female.

And, also, the male does gardening in the $10 slip on sandals he bought in Cuba, when his big toe swelled up. The female does it in the lovely lovely lovely £80 Berghaus walking shoes she bought yeterday in Blacks and she wants to break in before holiday.

Furthermore, people pay a fortune to go to a gym to do less exercise, in less pleasant surroundings, than what I did today. A bit more of this (actually, a lot needs doing...!) and I will be back to my fighting weight. So watch out!

Hanging from a chandelier...

...is a very sexy thing to do.

There, that got your attention, didn't it. We decided yesterday to fit the new light - which is a candelabra type thing. We examined the pieces in the box. I read the instructions. Jimmy removed the old light-fitting.

Then the fun began. It was the nearest we have got to a blazing row not fuelled by alcohol. Two minute job, he said. Closer to two hours. Most of that consisted of him standing on the ladder trying to wire the fitting and screw it to the ceiling, whilst I supported the weight of it by holding my hands up. Him, "Turn the light on." Me turn it on. Light work. Him, "Off." "Leave it." Me "On or off?" Him "When I say leave it, I mean off." Me "But you said leave it when it was on."

Later, Me, "Ooh, I should get my camera now." Him, "No, you can bloody hold this thing for me." (Only, I don't think he said 'bloody'). But we managed to survive without a full row. Yay! And there was that bit later when he was saying something about fixing a rose to the ceiling and other stuff. Well, I say other stuff. Men talk technical DIY type electricity decorating things but I just hear noise. So I tuned out. Until, from the noise I filtered, "But it will take me a long time to get hard." I collapsed in giggles on the floor. Turns out he was talking about woodfiller or something. But he laughed, too.

Two minute job?

Hmm. We will have another go next weekend, when I will install the new curtain poll. That wil be a two minute job.

Too early

I know one isn't supposed to laugh at one's own jokes.

Jimmy hates uplighters with a vengeance. You know, lightshades that are visible from below and hide the ugliness of the naked light bulb. My task yesterday evening was to clean the one from the front room. (The whole light fitting will be replaced a in a couple of weeks). In wiping it with a damp cloth I managed to bring the paper away from the metal. "Bin," we agreed.

Later, we decided to have champagne with dinner. I set him the challenge of opening the bottle. We were in the back room. He reckons it's due for redecoration later in the year. Sardonically, he said, "I had better be careful where I aim this. After all, we don't want the cork hitting the lampshade and breaking it."

"No," I agreed. "That would be like premature ejaculation."