Wednesday 15 August 2007

Gazpacho Gripe

Balls to summer then. I don't even care if it wants to chuck it down with God's gushing tears just days before I go camping with Morris dancers.


During the minor flirtation with sunshine last weekend (as mentioned in a previous, hilarious blog), I went on the hunt for summery, refreshing foodstuff for my Saturday, garden-drenched luncheon. A carton of Gazpacho soup enticed me and I merrily purchased it. However, due to a rather late breakfast of bacon and wobbly eggs (provided by the chickens that live down the road), I did not get round to eating it and looked forward to having it on the following day. The Lord's Day, if you will.


But Sunday dawned, rather grey and undecided, and I passed up the opportunity of sitting in a garden, as it would have resulted in my taking all my clothes off, then having to put them all back on again, and then taking them all off again and then... You get the idea.


Obviously, I could still have partaken in the afore-mentioned carton of soup. However, the thing that makes gazpacho stand out from the others is that it is to be served cold. This is why it was the perfect choice for a sunny, summery day. I know that it is supposed to be cold for two reasons:

  1. It says so on the carton
  2. Back in my youth, when I dabbled in geekdom, I was a fan of the Red Dwarf novels. These were far more comical and in-depth books of the television series (starring Chris Barrie, the darling of Ringwood Recreation Centre). In one particular chapter, Rimmer has been trying to schmooze with the hierarchy of the ship, and finally gets an invite to dine at the Captain's table. He is already making a fool of himself, but is under the impression he is charming those around him, when gazpacho soup is served. Horrified at its chilly temperature, he haughtily sends it back, creating a scene with regards to the inefficiency of the kitchen staff. Millions of years later, he still blames this social faux pas as the reason he never was able to make it as an officer. This is a pretty dry account what I remember to be a very funny story in the book...

Anyway. I thought I would be able to have it for lunch yesterday, which, although not a scorcher, was relatively pleasant. But I was whisked of to the pub for some greasy bacon. So I have had it today, and it feels as cold and wet and damp in my stomach as the goddamn day is outside.


This shit-blog was posted for your perusal against my better judgement.



Saturday 11 August 2007

Dirty Weekend




I have tried so hard to get over him. I have been with other, more minty lovers and enjoyed the refreshing, peppery tang they left in my mouth.

I thought I was strong. But I was wrong. I should not have underestimated his cunning whiles.

He waited until I was at my most weak and vulnerable, then he gazed at me from an unexpected position under the coffee table with those 'spark me up' eyes.

I thought I would give in to his charm after a few glasses of wine, or a fine meal. I thought he would seduce me as he did back when we were lovers. But he was cleverer than that. He waited until my friends were not there to protect me.

I was alone and confused. He said he just wanted to talk, no strings attached. It seemed reasonable, maybe I had been cruel, cutting him out of my life like that. What about his feelings, surely he had them too?

We gazed at each other from across the room, I could feel my desire for him welling up inside me. Then, like lovers in a film, I ran towards him as he stoically waited for my forgiving embrace. I took my dirty lover and lead him outside to the star-spangled alleyway and took him into me with sordid glee!

Oh! The pleasure of those naughty moments we shared that night. How could something so wrong feel so right? In my lonely moment of need, there he was, my temptation, holding out his smoky hand and pleading "Come, join me", and Oh! How we fused together that night!

The next day, I felt dirty, but alarmed myself by relishing the sensation and counting the hours until I could be reunited with my dirty pleasure. Finally I ran home, into his welcoming arms and although we clung together, our absence having made my heart fonder, something was amiss. Something of the fire had died. Yet I refused to believe it was so, and had him twice on the stairs.

We quarrelled later that night. I was heart- broken. All my weeks of trying to get over him were shattered in the space of two lonely nights, and I was back where I started. Stuck in a rut with someone who would ultimately only hurt me and bring me pain. Yet despite knowing this, I still wanted him so much.

Tonight we went for a few drinks, we always get on better when we are drunk. I know this is not a good basis for a relationship, but what can I do? He is in my bed, waiting for me now. I can't bring myself to tell him that it is over, I know he will get angry and try to force himself into me.


But I have my secret defence mechanism, I will tell him:

"I should have changed that stupid lock I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me
Go on now, go, walk out the door
just turn around now
'cause you're not welcome any more
weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye

did ya think I'd crumble

did ya think I'd lay down and die

oh no! not I!

I will survive

as long as I know how to love
I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live

I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I will survive
(hey-hey)"

Friday 10 August 2007

Déjà Vu

Today feels like this time last year. That is to say, that after months of pissing-down rain, the sun is finally blistering outside, whilst I am stuck in an office. Only, whereas last year's office included a chandelier, the current building boasts un-opening windows and dodgy air conditioning.


(*May I interrupt at this point to say I have just spent about an hour illegally scripting a, frankly, genius blog, only for none of it except for the first, warm-up paragraph to save. This pretty much sums up the day, and I apologise for the sub-standard re-enactment that follows...)


However, in the words of Terry Wogan, I mustn't grumble. Back in those days, it was positively traumatic to have to drag myself onto a bus at the crack of my dawn to traipse into a whole different county, only to sit with the now-legendary Tiny & Jabbering Jane in their plush, yet pointless office suite. I am now so busy determining if the purple plums should be categorized as A or Z, I have no time to gaze lazily out of the frozen-shut window and daydream about the daydreams I could be dreaming next to my mother's stupendous frog-pond.

Which is why today has been so difficult. Having finished all my tree-shits by 10:30 this morning, I was more than tempted to claim the remainder of the fat, juicy day as my own. But maybe my nemesis (as she shall now be known, "Perky" is just too amicable) and her martyrs have been rubbing on me, or maybe (even worse) I have developed some horrible sense of responsibility. Either way, I stayed.

But the stinger (unfortunately not the organic, Hugh-Whirly-Girly variety) was as follows: I was in the midst of introducing our new lamb-to-the-tree-slaughter to the wondrous world of binding pleasure, when she was whipped, whipped, I tell you, from under my oddly formed nose. Out! Out went she! Out into the glorious sunbursts of fun. A tree expert swept her away to avenge (or condemn) trees in some far-flung, exotic location. Possibly Winchester.

But, wait, my avid reader! Wait! For what is already a terrible tale of sunless woe now takes an even darker plunge in to dark depths of dark. Nemesis came waddling over to me, in her cheap, wooden heels and drawled in her inimitable fashion that she would also be trailing off into the sunset, in the wake of her beloved tree-man. So flinging some overly-complicated-but-not-actually-that-complicated-if she-just-explained-it properly bit of her work in my direction, off she wobbled.

Bitch.