That title suggests that our marriage is heading for the rocks, with some almighty scrap on the front lawn or atop the bungalow like in Die Hard, but no. We’d both look dreadful in a vest, like cottage cheese being strained through a yard of muslin. We’re an odd couple, we so very rarely argue, and when we do, it’s always over in seconds because Paul pulls a stupid face at me until I stop moaning at him. We’re both too laid back to argue – like everything else, if it gets us out of breath, it isn’t worth doing. That said, we did have a disagreement yesterday over what flavour stock cube to use in a recipe (honestly, it’s all go in this house) and it got me thinking of an idea of a blog article – those little tiny things that irk us about one another after being together eight years. So I asked Paul to compile his top five (and oh, because I’m the writer, I get a right to reply), and so…
Paul’s five things that rile him about me:
- I put things on top of the kitchen bin instead of putting them in;
- this one sounds reasonable to the reader until you realise my logic – I put big stuff on the top of the bin so I remember to take it to the outside recycling bin rather than clogging up the tiny kitchen bin with giant lemonade bottles;
- I eat all of his ‘lunch’ ham -i.e. the expensive ham that he buys to put in his sandwiches for lunch instead of the wafer-thin shite we buy for the cats;
- because it’s tasty;
- I don’t put chicken on a plate when it defrosts;
- because it’s in a sealed, freezer-proof bag! Plus it means we have an extra plate to wash…;
- I play odd music whenever I’m typing the blog;
- this one is fair enough, but I do have a defence, I can’t have the TV on because I get distracted, and I can’t have music with lyrics playing because I start singing, so it has to be score music or soundtrack stuff. Admittedly, he might not enjoy the theme from Rollercoaster Tycoon playing whilst I type but it’s infinitely better than hearing an almost-30-year-old-man caterwauling his way through the Cher back catalogue;
- I always put my smelly feet on him whenever we sit and watch TV.
- I’m six foot one, they have to go somewhere, and the floor is cold, whereas Paul is like a little hot water tank pumping out heat – cheaper than slippers.
Things that annoy me about Paul:
- he’ll happily put the milk carton back in the fridge even if has the tiniest sliver of milk in it – not enough for anything practical but just enough to make sure I try and make a coffee and end up exasperated;
- he’ll randomly and without warning decide he doesn’t like a food that I’ve cooked plenty of times before, turning serving up a new recipe into a dangerous game of ingredient russian roulette;
- he’ll cheerfully announce to the room every time he’s been to the toilet;
- he can’t take a single comment on his driving (although that’s partly because I’ve made him so sensitive about it by hanging on like I’m Sandra Bullock in Gravity every time he goes round a corner at 35mph); and
- he eats all the fucking cheese in the fucking fridge – for all that he bitches on about me eating ham every time I go to make an omelette or something I’ll find the tiniest crumb of cheese left or even worse, a block with a great big crime-scene-esque tooth-print in it.
Well, if that’s all we have to moan about, I say we’re doing pretty well! At least we’re not the Trevor and Little Mo of the street, which is a shame because I do a brilliant Scottish accent. Weigh in tomorrow and I’m aiming just to maintain or put on a pound – my boss left us with a colossal box of Sports Mixture to work through, knowing my weakness is flavoured animal hoof. So we’ll see.
I’m off to the cinema on Tuesday, though not to see 50 Shades of Grey. I can’t genuinely think of a film I’d want to see less at the cinema, not least because I bet you can barely hear the audio over the sound of what sounds like 250 tiny pairs of bellows pumping away. Work that one out. I just don’t get it, I really don’t – the books were about as erotic as hearing an uncaring doctor telling a child that they’re not going to make their teenage years. Sex as described by the perpetually celibate – I’d get more aroused ringing up the speaking clock for a phonewank. BAH. Anyway that’s out of my system now, here’s tonight’s recipe.
Now, if I’m completely honest, this wasn’t a total success – it tasted alright, but it didn’t blow my socks off. Partly down to Paul adding the wrong stock cube, I reckon – it’s no wonder I’m planning some Machiavellian Gone-Girl scheme to frame him for my murder.
to make syn free chicken chow mein, you’ll need:
ingredients: two chicken breasts, cut thin, 2 carrots cut thinly, mushrooms sliced any old how, three big spring onions, cut however you like, 100g mangetout, 100g baby corn, two sliced peppers, one pack of dried egg noodles, 300ml stock made with two CHICKEN stock cubes, 1tbsp of worcestershire sauce, 2tbsp of soy sauce and 1tsp of bovril. Also, add some chinese five spice.
to make syn free chicken chow mein, you should:
recipe: fry the chicken and vegetables until cooked through – hot and fast. Cook the noodles. Add them. Make up the stock, add the sauce, five spice, soy sauce and bovril. Tip and mix. Serve. That was easy.
top tip: serve with my bloody amazing spring rolls.
extra-easy: yes. Eat this and you’ll have superfree veg coming out of your ears, and, if you don’t follow my advice about cooking the chicken high and fast, you’ll have superfree veg coming out of your arse a good twenty minutes later.
K, must dash.