QUICK: I know I’ve got loads of comments in the queue to clear and approve – bear with me, my app is broken! I’ve read them all and you’re all fabulous.
Came home today to find a clear plastic bag on the front step with a bag of chopped up rabbit in it. This is the pleasure and joy of living next to an ex-butcher with a shotgun licence. I wish he’d be a bit more discreet about it though – my freezer is absolutely full of unidentifiable bags of chopped up flesh and blood. I feel like Fred West when I go to get the fish fingers out. We had someone valuing the house the other week and when I went to get the ground coffee out of the freezer, I saw her wince and suck her teeth like she was expecting a jar of severed cocks to come tumbling out.
The Other Half has disappeared down to Peterborough for a couple of days to attend to family matters, and as much I would have just loved to spend time with my in-laws, I’ve elected to stay behind and attend to all the various bobbins we need doing around the house. What this actually means is that I can lounge around unwashed for three days with Pringles crushed into my back hair, stop brushing my teeth and revert back to sloth form. I dread to think what would happen if Paul went into hospital for a week or something, I’d probably end up looking like Ludo from Labyrinth with half the house covered in newspapers and cats. I do think Paul and I balance each other’s foibles and tics out very well but then see, we were always destined to be together – I’m the yin to his yang, the Myra to his Ian, the Arthur to his Martha (or vice versa if it’s his birthday). He was a poor boy (from a poor family), as was I, but I came with the benefit of having a crazy rich friend who funded all my shenanigans. When I look back on that time in my life, it’s astonishing what I got up to. Case in point: I flew down to Portsmouth to meet up with him on an absolute whim because he had a cold and I felt sorry for him. My friend bought the tickets and sent me on my way, and then bought me four new sets of tickets because I kept cancelling to stay another day. Clearly Paul was so impressed by the fact I flew down in a plane so small and old that I had to hand-crank the propeller before I got on that he decided I was a keeper and moved straight up to Newcastle with me.
At least, I hope that’s what it was. There’s a photo of us somewhere in history of us both lying in bed, taking a selfie (I know), with me looking into the camera with my usual boss-eyed squint, and Paul smiling dreamily at my wallet just at the edge of the shot. I had the last laugh there though, I’m in charge of the money. I’m like The Banker from Deal or no Deal, but that would make Paul Noel Edmonds, and as he’s NOT a beard with a twat hanging off it, the analogy doesn’t quite work. I’d be able to show you the photo if I’d been on board with Facebook and the like at the time but I wasn’t.
See, it took me almost five years to move onto Facebook and embrace all the soporific self-aggrandisement that came with it, but once I took the plunge, uploaded 7.3 million pictures of my cat and some filtered photos of Paul, I can see how useful it is, even if I spend more time than is healthy tutting at people’s poor choice of cutlery and inability to tidy away the fucking wires at the back of their telly.
Pardon me a moment.
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I had to go and open the door for Sola, who was scrabbling at the glass on the front door like crazy. I half expected her to have her paw pressed up against the glass with NOT PENNY’S BOAT scribbled on it. She’s been doing my nut in today because she’s doing her passive aggressive trick of meowing to be out and then immediately scratching at the door like a man who has woken up in a body bag. I’ve mentioned before that she’s loosened a bit of the door frame so that she can pull it back with her paw and rap it against the door, meaning for about twenty minutes you get LET ME IN THE HOUSE I’M HUNGRY AND COLD AND YOU’RE CLEARLY COMFORTABLE SO YOU MUST MOVE’ in fucking morse code. It’s so loud. Bitch. She’ll waltz in with her tail in full ‘FUCK YOU’ mode, go to her water fountain and then immediately start meowing to be out again.
No recipe tonight as, with Paul away, I can’t be arsed to cook for one, so I’m having a jacket potato with beans and a chat with the cat. Both cats are in a huff because they went for their injections yesterday, although Bowser is especially put out because I managed to drop his cat-box as I was putting him into the car and he went rolling down the drive inside the box like a Gladiator in an Atlasphere. Have no fear, he’s alright because the box was stuffed with towels and a plate of cooked chicken, but we could barely drive for laughing. That’ll be the RSPCA kicking down my door later then. I did go to Morrisons (the glamour – it never ends) to try and pick up some treats but I became so despondent with all the harsh yellow lighting and the dead-eyed 3.40pm reduced-item-clutching zombies that I picked up the first nauseating bit of pastry I could see and came home.
As it happens, I managed to pick up a Morrisons All Day Breakfast Pasty. Which is fine if your idea of an all-day breakfast is some indistinguishable orange gloop, potato with all the texture of a wet sneeze and a sausage with the meat content of a sofa cushion all wedged into a suitcase of fire-retardant pastry. For one thing, the pastry was so thick and dry that I had to be put on a drip just to finish the second half. And the smell! Listen, I wasn’t expecting a Heston Blumenthal level of magic and wonder, but I prefer my food not to smell like someone has just cut a cat turd in half and basted it in a dying man’s breath. I put most of it in the bin, and didn’t even need to pour Fairy Liquid on it to stop me going back later in a fit of greed. YOU LISTENING MORRISONS?
Anyway, this potato isn’t going to eat itself.
We’ve finally got round to making a Facebook page BTW, which makes things easier – if you like it, you’ll get our posts automatically appearing in your newsfeed and plus, it’s easy to share! https://www.facebook.com/twochubbycubs enjoy enjoy.