Belly Ache

Well it has come to that time of year where one has to spend several minutes upon arrival anywhere, divesting oneself of gloves, coats scarves and hats only to have the whole process repeated in reverse before exiting the building again.

Working as I do across quite a number of different sites I find myself having to repeat this little performance multiple times a day in front of various staff teams.

Many of our NHS offices are massively in need of modern heating and the ancient boilers and pipes that we are stuck with heat the offices  up to near blast furnace levels of warmth. This necessitates my having to also remove my jumper more often than not which leads me to a quandary .

Very often my shirt will ‘ride up’ as I remove said jumper, revealing a few inches of pale untoned midriff to all and sundry. I am afterwards forced to swiftly tuck my shirt back into my trousers in what I mentally refer to as ‘the Gasson manoeuvre’.  Sometimes it is possible to untuck the shirt and sit hard upon it prior to removal of the jumper but this is still very uncomfortable.

Now I am quite embarrassed about showing my tummy to work colleagues & so I have taken to a new practice of always changing out of my jumper in the gentleman’s toilet where I can take the precaution of locking the door before I wrestle myself away from the clutches of my jumper. This also affords me the opportunity to quickly check (what remains of) my hair to ensure that the static generated by the removal of the garment has not caused the hair to balloon out like some crazy Einstein.

Although the toilet visit does minimise the embarrassment from crazy hair and belly flashing, it brings with it another problem which is that I become paranoid that people will wonder why I am going to the bathroom and returning with no jumper on. Do people understand my concerns or do that draw the conclusion that I am locking myself in there in order to experiment with different clothing choices like some kind of cut price Mr Benn. Do they visualise me parading up and down in front of the washbasin mirror in different variations of dress and undress. Trousers on my head, shirt fully unbuttoned or whatever outlandish style takes my fancy.

Probably not, but it does mean that I usually try and time my divestment toilet visits to coincide with my frequency of urination in order to allay suspicion.

Roll on the spring.

Frying Pan Funeral

I need to procure a new frying pan. The non stick has finally given up the ghost on our most current one and now begin weeks of sniffing around the kitchenware sections of various shops in an attempt to find a new one which promises to neither stick nor warp with use.


So many years, so many broken promises. I always start the relationship with a new Frying pan in the giddy excitement of a new romance. After many days or weeks of searching I have finally discovered a pan which promises to last for ages & which will not warp or prove unworthy of my commitment.
I marvel at how awesome the non stick is as I return to cooking all the meals that I hitherto was forced to avoid in the old pan.


But then, over the weeks and months that follow, my affection slowly cools and the excitement of a new relationship is replaced by the mundane grind of normal life. The pan; rather than being the focus of exciting new recipes, becomes taken for granted and has to churn out endless omelettes, fry-ups and scotch pancakes.


After the twelve to eighteen month mark I start to notice visible signs of aging and deterioration which I immediately go into denial about. 'no no, it's a great pan. I took ages choosing it. It will surely go on and on'. But in my heart of hearts I know that this is the beginning of the end and I am already starting to cast furtive glances at other frying pans when we are out in town. Embarrassingly having to slam my laptop shut when my wife comes into the room for fear that she will see my internet history and realise that I have once again been looking at pictures of younger frying pans.


Eventually the pan is incapable of managing even the most rudimentary meals shredding & destroying rashers of bacon entrusted to it's care. After the second or third meal is transformed into a shoddy, shapeless mess; I come to my senses and declare that the relationship isn't working and that I need to start looking around for another frying pan that can meet my needs. And the adventure begins again.


This would all be well and good were it not for the fact that I appear to have great difficulty in actually throwing the old frying pans away. Perhaps it is due to all of the emotional investment that I have put into finding it. Or to the memory of all those great meals that it faithfully produced over the years. But when push comes to shove, and I am left holding it over the dark open depths of the wheelie bin; I find that (like Frodo Baggins) I just cannot bring myself to let go.


So it goes into the shed with my other dead frying pans and I tell myself that I will be able to find some use for it in the future (perhaps on a camping trip where I will be cooking over an open fire or as part of  a hastily constructed suit of armour in the event of zombie apocalypse).
This cycle has been repeating every 12 to 20 months so that I now have a not inconsiderable, stack of frying pans. All of which I feel some level of emotional attachment to. This must be how hoarders feel about all of their crap. Perhaps this is how it starts? Too much of an emotional relationship with cold unfeeling objects. Just not feeling able to let go. I have previously written of my tendency to hang onto dreadlocks, teeth and even beard clippings. This is a personality bent that I need to stamp out hard before I become a full time hoarder of bent screws or something!


On the other hand, I do quite like my pile of frying pans. My wife discovered it the other day (on an unauthorised trip into my shed. How dare she!). She demanded that I throw some away which I duely did. She does not have any difficulty in parting with old crap. There is clearly no emotional component there for her, whether it is getting rid of an old and faithful car or a previously loved sweater, she turns her back and moves on without ever giving it a second thought.


What I would really like to do if I am honest, is to continue to collect frying pans (I have given up on ever finding one that lives up to it's claims of a lifetime of stick free cooking). I would like to collect a big pile of them which could then be disseminated to the mourners at my funeral.
'Hello sir. Attending the Gasson ceremony today are we? Please take this Sainsbury's finest range 20 inch deep pan non warp model. Hello madam. You too? Please take this Tefal 18 inch red spot non stick deluxe'.
 Then people could throw them onto my coffin whilst they bid me farewell at the graveside. It would be a bit like the ancient pharaohs who got buried with all of their old crap. Maybe pyramids were just the afterlife equivalent of 'the big yellow storage box company' when all is said and done. Imagine the clatter and clang at the grave side as the accumulated lifetimes worth of frying pans are reverentially chucked on top of the coffin together before being covered in earth. Or maybe I could get them all melted together 'game of thrones' style into a custom made, non stick coffin. A Teflon coated Bier in which to travel to the afterlife.


In any case, the hunt is on for an exciting new frying pan and there is a place in my kitchenware mausoleum for the current incumbent. Hopefully my wife will stay out of the shed in from now on following my dire warnings about using the 'wrong sort of paint'.

Free Luxury Shampoo

I love an 'Air B&B'. Don't get me wrong, I've had my fair share of slightly dodgy ones over the years. We had one in Brazil which boasted and exposed electrical ring main and hot water that had been plumbed in the wrong way so that our first few showers were and exercise in ice cold and boiling hot torture. But I love the feeling that I'm schtupping the hotel system and most of all I love the free stuff that other people leave. There's usually the normal boring things in the kitchen. A half bag of granulated sugar, some questionable looking dried pasta and a cooking sauce that looks about ready to grow legs and dance out of the door. But root a little deeper and you can find some real gems. On our last holiday we had a truly stupendous air B& B at the top of a big tenement overlooking the city sprawl. There was this electronic door key which you had to put the correct code in to turn (which made me feel like James Bond). There was an extra bedroom just for the kids with toys in situ for them to play with. There was a massive TV with incomprehensible remote controls & free wifi.
But best of all there was a bath. A huge gleaming tub surrounded by modern pristine tiles with piping hot water and a lockable door.
This was heaven. Our family have managed without a bath for the past five years in our house as the previous occupant decided to rip it out and replace it with a modern shower cubicle which they never correctly plumbed in (not even back to front). So the shower had no hot water connected and when we did get it going in the end, we discovered that the shower tray had not been sealed so that water pissed down the kitchen walls and short circuited the boiler every time anyone spend more than three minutes washing themselves.
 Three shower units and a lot of swearing later we have sorted the problem but I haven't enjoyed soaking my bones in a bath for literally years.
Back when I first moved out of mum and dads house, up to Nottingham, I didn't own a washing machine. In order to economise and save effort, I used to bath with my dirty laundry. It made perfect sense to me as a 19 year old hippy. Stick a load of fabric detergent in the tub. If it will clean clothes then it will clean me right?
Then just tip the contents of your laundry bin into the swirling waters and step in to join it.
It was quite a nice sensation. I would stir the clothing and socks around as the water slowly grew browner and occasionally I would be able to identify specific items as they rose gently through the murk to greet me like old friends.
Then finally I gave in and purchased a second hand washing machine. We didn't have a TV at the time and I vividly remember sitting enthralled and watching the whole of the first wash from start to finish on my kitchen floor. Magical.


Anyway, I haven't been able to enjoy a good soak in many a long year so I couldn't wait to get into the holiday bath. Unfortunately I had no bubble bath but a quick search around the Air B&B turned up a blue white and gold plastic bottle bearing the legend 'Luxury Shampoo'. I stood on tiptoe to retrieve it from the high shelf in the utility closet and pumped a generous amount into the hot steaming water gushing into the bath. It was a sort of gloopy brown gold colour and had a smell which (though I couldn't directly identify it) spoke of glossy hair and healthy exercise.
A huge mound of frothy bubbles obediently formed and I slipped in to enjoy my first bath experience in the holiday flat. Bliss.
I so enjoyed the bath that I started completely eschewing showers in order to have more time in the tub. By the end of the week I had almost completely used up the Luxury Shampoo but like a good husband I offered it to my wife so that she too could experience Luxury (I like to say 'luxury' as if I am a tipsy Noel Coward...really stretch the word out 'Luck sure ey').
My wife looked at me with an expression of concerned amusement. 'You've been using this in your bath?', 'Yes darling it's lovely. Really bubbly and look; It says it's a Luxury shampoo. You can't get better than that and it didn't even cost us a penny. Someone left it here in the flat after their holiday'.


My wife refused to use the shampoo in her bath. 'Look closer at the label Ian' she insisted. 'It's luxury dog shampoo'. I immediately subjected the label to more careful scrutiny (having previously just glanced at it). To my embarrassment she was indeed correct. It said LUXURY dog SHAMPOO and there was even a little light grey pictogram of a dog on the front (which in my defence was very hard to see on the top shelf of the utility cupboard).
This at least explained the odd aroma and the fact that it had left me with very good hair.


I decided not to inform the children that they had been bathing in a doggy bath all week. It will serve them right for flooding the floor every night. Next time I will definitely purchase my own bubble bath from a reputable dealer (or return to using laundry detergent!).

Caffeine Survivalist

I need coffee. In fact our whole family runs better when coffee is introduced to the mix. My wife and I are so paranoid about the apocalyptic results of the coffee running out that we always have piles of the stuff in the pantry as well as a jar of what we refer to as ‘the emergency coffee’ made up of  run off from the previous bags.  The alternative is too hideous to consider.

Now let me make my position clear. I am not talking about the disgusting freeze dried swill that the peasant classes claim as coffee. I am talking about delicious ground beans run through a caffitierre or coffee machine and poured gently into a beautiful cup which steams tantalisingly as it fills the room with an aroma of brown affluence and calm . I only usually drink two cups a day as my kidneys threatened to explode a few years back and consultants informed me that coffee was instrumental in the formation of kidney stones & best avoided.  

Personally, I am not willing to live in a world where coffee is denied to me and so I have compromised and have just two cups a day. One around 6am and one around 5pm. But the coffee has to be GOOD. I will not tolerate substandard rubbish and so will always refuse offers of coffee when at someone elses house. I favour Taylors ‘Rich Italian’ for preference and have a little song that I sing to myself when I am preparing it (to the tune of ‘she’s an easy lover’ by Phill Collins)

‘He’s a Rich Italian, he makes his coffee strong believe me,

Like a wild stallion, he’ll grind a coffee that will suit your needs…’

‘You know that he’s Italian, He’s a rich Italian, He wears a gold medallion, everyday. ..’  etc

 

Imagine the scene therefore. We are on a family holiday in Poland and our Air B& B (lovely as it is), has no caffitierre or coffee machine. None of the local shops appear to stock them either.  Suffice it to say that, after a couple of days without my morning caffeine fix I was clucking like a heroin addict who’s dealer has just been arrested.

‘I must have coffee’… the local shops were happy to sell any amount of ground beans but nowhere seemed to vend the means to transform them into the warm brown heavenly goodness that I required. In the end I became desperate enough to take matters into my own inept hands & decided to manufacture a ‘home made’ cafitierre out of one of my wife’s stockings, some rubber bands and a big jar that I discovered in one of the cupboards. I cut a hole in the lid of the jar using a knife and we were in business.

I am the Bear Grylls of coffee survival! The resulting brew machine totally destroyed my wife’s stocking and turned most of the kitchen into a damp, coffee grit ridden wasteland but it was worth it. Coffee, glorious coffee flowed from the DIY spout like the nectar of the gods.  Now this holiday can really get started and the kids can come out of hiding. The only draw back is that my wife is now left with one odd stocking. Perhaps I should plan a robbery so that I can make use of it. Waste not want not.

 

Signs & Portents: Who is Mincing Your Meat?

Who is Mincing Your Meat?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I drive past this sign several times a week and every time I see it I am more and more confused as to what the company are trying to infer.
Obviously they are purveyors of quality meat derivatives to the discerning customer. I understand that much.
But 'Who is mincing your meat'... why did they decide to have that emblazoned across a sign by the roadside at (what I assume must have been) some reasonable expense to themselves.

It seems quite innocent at first glance...but think about it they haven't said, 'is your meat being minced by people who adhere to industry standard hand hygiene regulations'. They said 'who is' not 'How is'. Are they inferring that a certain type of people are preferable as meat handlers. Which type of people are they talking about. Are they a bit racist?? Do they mean that my meat is guaranteed to have been minced only by stout hearted remain voters. Or only by conservative party members who can recount their ancestry back five generations, or only by good Catholics?

This question has been puzzling me for a while during my morning commute to work. I found myself humming a little tune about it which I have transcribed below for your amusement:-

[to the tune of something rousing and patriotic, to a marching band with snare drums and lot of brass]

Who is Mincing Your Meat?
Whose making it GOOD?
Are they the hands of an honest tommy
or the filthy paws of some foreign johnny.
Is your meat being manhandled by a card carrying commie oh
Who is Mincing Your Meat?

Anyway, I don't know who is mincing my meat. It come from Aldi so it's probably being minced by a huge machine where cows go in one end and then a 'mercy button' is depressed and mince comes out in shiny  packages at the other end. Who is pressing the button? Probably some nameless corporate drone working for minimum wage. Maybe I should email Foxholes farm and Shop and apologetically explain that I (like most people) am not on first name terms with the person who is operating the mincing machine.
Suggestions in the comments please.

Trying to Drive in Poland

Polish Drivers are fast. My family went to Poland on holiday this year. Great place, great people, great beaches. As usual I opted to do the majority of the driving as I felt that my blood pressure has had it too easy of late and needed a good run.

I had used a left hand drive hire car before but on that holiday we were fortunate enough to have an air B&B next to the most incontinent birds in the whole of Portugal. These birds had eaten bad fruit or something and we were parked directly below their favourite toilet tree. This resulted by the end of the week in a car which was so totally caked in crap that any slight blemishes to the bodywork were undetectable even to microscopic examination.

On this years holiday we had no such luck and the cost of additional insurance was so astronomically high that I decided to forgo it and trust to prayer and blind terror. This was before I knew about the normal custom and practice of Poland’s drivers.

There was huge tourist  banner at Gdansk airport showing a grinning Polish soldier atop a wartime tank. The headline (in English) read ‘Poland: First to War’. Having now experienced Polish drivers I can well believe this. Probably the polish allied tanks were screaming up behind all of the other drivers and sitting at 80 miles per hour never more than three millimetres away from their back bumpers until they pulled into the slower lane in fear of their lives & watched the Poles swish by.

Now we do have this behaviour in England but it is largely limited to Audi Drivers (which is understandable. Anyone who purchases a car whose very symbol is four conjoined butt holes is giving you a pretty clear indication of their road habits). Usually it only happens a couple of times a journey & I usually start gently pulling over as soon as I see an Audi in the rear-view mirror in order to maintain my calm.

But in Poland this behaviour is not just limited to Audi drivers but appears to be normal custom and practice for everyone. As the motorways are all just dual carriageways, it has become the normal method of overtaking.

After a week or so of this I had somehow managed to bring our shiny hire care through unscathed but then disaster struck and we ended up stuck in airport hire car purgatory. The barrier letting us into the airport drop off car park dutifully dispensed a ticket when we rolled up for our departing flight around 5am. Sadly the parking machine then ate said ticket leaving us stuck between to impassable barriers with my family growing ever more frantic as the time of our planes departure drew nigh.

In the end (after risking death by driving the wrong way down one way systems a couple of times), my wife made a tearful and impassioned plea to the airport staff for help. The sincerity of her message was undermined by it’s having to be relayed through the crappy barrier intercom and furthermore by the fact that there were no staff available at that ungodly hour of the morning.  In the end I took drastic action & dumped the car in a likely looking layby near the airport. We then route marched the children to the departure gate.  From the gate we could view it through the glass; rocking gently on its suspension as Polish drivers whipped past it at speeds approaching mach 2.

When I returned home I wrote a sickeningly nice email to the hire company who (hungry as they must have been for compliment letters to feature in their annual report) waived any punitive charges. My memories of Poland are very positive however. We attended a Polish wedding whilst there which was totally insane. I am used to partying with Brazilians and thought that they were hardcore but they have nothing on the Polish. The wedding band at our venue was hired to play from 5pm to 5am. Even my wife (who is an unstoppable dance floor machine) had to politely retire to our hotel room around 2am in order to prevent her legs falling off. I think at that point they were serving course 125 of the wedding feast. Phew….what an experience. I would recommend it to everyone (but maybe get the extra car insurance deal if you are planning on driving there)!

Failing at the National Anthem

Today I attended my wife’s ‘Naturalisation Ceremony’ (sounds a little sinister doesn’t it). A very proud moment for our family. This magically turns her from an unnatural foreign devil into a nice natural English lady. All that she needed to do to affect this transformation was to swear allegiance to the monarch and then sing verses one and three of the national anthem.

I personally was not aware that the national anthem had a third verse and was at something of a disadvantage to everyone else there as I did not have a printed copy of the words. I was therefore forced to ‘busk it’ and come up with some legitimate sounding lyrics on the fly. This was the result:-

(to the tune of God Save Our Gracious Queen)

She has a lot of dogs

She cleans up after them

She’s good like that

She’s got a pile of dosh But she keeps her old socks

She likes collecting clocks

God Save the Queen!

 

I mumbled my way through this with a look of patriotic devotion fixed on my features and I don’t think that anyone noticed. One dude had his hand clasped over his heart and there was a military guy there who insisted on saluting through the whole thing which was different.

There were some speeches from dignitaries about british history and what it means to be English and then my wife was presented with a colour printed certificate and three baby jars of English jam and other preserves. This concludes the naturalisation and we were left to take some selfies in the nobby council chambers and then go home and eat our jam.

 

It does make me feel proud of our nation. I hope that my wife does not now stop wearing clothing that matches or have retroactive dentistry to make her teeth snaggley and weird. I have suggested that she now needs to viciously defend her position on brext (it doesn’t matter which position she takes. The important thing is to then have no empathy at all for anyone who takes the opposing view no matter how near you were to voting that way yourself before you opted to vote as you did).