I returned home from work this afternoon to discover a seagull must have attacked our rubbish bags this morning after they were put out for the bin men. So I had to go outside in the sweltering heat and pick up rotting tea bags, bits of leftover meat from Saturday’s BBQ, and old bits of tissue (which have always made me feel nauseous; no idea why) and put them back into a bin bag, instead of leaving them to fester on the pavement. I was grumbling inwardly to myself as I did this but then I realised…. There are children in the developing world who are a quarter of my age who spend every day of their lives picking over people’s rubbish to try and make a living. Well, if that isn’t a massively humbling guilt-trip of a thought I don’t know what is.
Rubbish successfully rounded up, I just bought these from the Save the Children shop. Guilt is slightly alleviated (I know, I know, such a middle-class solution to a global problem “lets throw some money at it and pretend it’s not there any more”) and every time I drink tea I’ll be reminded of how I felt today, and hopefully start doing something to make a difference.
Proof that Andie MacDowell is wrong.
The last time I ran (apart from a half-arsed semi-shuffle for a bus) was 2004. I think my entire body might have gone into shock. On the plus side, I am now going to eat this, and the calories totally don’t count. Ish.
My brother stole my cheese at Christmas.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t pulled
The same stunt at my grandmother’s
Just one week before.
He’d taken one look at the slab of cheese,
Raised the special cheese-knife
Double-spike tip like the horns of Satan,
Playing devil’s advocate with his portion choice
Slice, and half the block is gone
Skewered and falling onto his eager plate.
I couldn’t say anything; it wasn’t my cheese to protect.
I’d joked of it when he stayed here,
Allowed him to take home whatever he wished,
But specifically mentioned the cheese.
December 27th and I’d been out all day,
Looking forward to a dinner of crackers
And the crumbliest cranberriest of accompaniments.
I go to the fridge. Search high. Search low.
Disembowel it, a frantic animal.
Debate finding my pig-shaped dynamo torch
To shine in their eyes; to hunt for the swine.
Then it hits me, all in an instant
He wouldn’t… I asked him…. No surely not
I call home… heart beats fast as the accusatory dial tone
Mum answers “I think there’s some cheese in the fridge…”
A flash-flood of anger tsunamis my being
I’m spitting blood, seeing red, seething with anger
I’ve never before been so mad at my brother.
This episode is later presented to an audience of one,
Who understands cheese is a personal thing,
And it leads to the creation of a system against which
All future anger will be measured.
It is called: The Wensleyscale.
This afternoon I baked Jamie Oliver’s “Bloomin’ Brilliant Brownies”. They. Are. Delicious.
My favourite part of this was it reminded me of a conversation Tom and I had on Sunday about Jamie Oliver. Tom couldn’t remember his name, and was trying to describe him to me; “chef, rides a scooter, giant tongue, bit of a cunt”. I googled what he’d said and the Wikipedia hit contained all those words. Brilliant.