Oh, but its so much nicer than being at work!
2007-11-30, 3:09 p.m.
Oh my goodness, where have I BEEN?!!In answer to Peggy�s question, the scowling contest was a tie � both BF and Shagnasty appeared to be on best behaviour and whilst there was some covert sniping, no scowling was done and thankfully no heads needed to be banged together. Do people still do that to kids? I can remember when I was little, StepfordBro and I sitting on the step between our kitchen and our sitting room, going bickerbickerbicker like siblings only 18 months apart are programmed to do. Mater would appear out of nowhere, clack our heads together like a human Newton�s Cradle and then smartly step over us into the kitchen with a terse �pack it in, you two�, while we clutched our collective craniums (crania?) and went �Ow! Your head�s really hard!� �No, YOUR head�s really hard� �No, yours is!� �Isnt� �Is� �Isnt� until Mater threatened to do it again. Then we�d scarper outside for a game of �kick the plastic football against the shorts�clad thigh� (�OW! I hate you.�) and a Chinese Burn or two.
Incidentally, my darling Jooj, who is the kindest and sweetest creature on God�s earth has taught me a marvellous (if evil) variant on the Chinese Burn theme. She says it�s a Japanese Burn � and she got it from Spawn of MiniMe who has a Japanese stepmum, so I guess she�d know!
Try this at home, kids! Pinch a big wodge of the forearm skin of your adversary between index finger and thumb. Use the side of the other hand (little finger edge) to rub hard and fast with a sawing motion on the pinched bit of skin. I�ll wait til you find someone to try it on � Jooj demonstrated on BF and Im happy to loan him out for this if you don�t have any adversaries of your own��
Hurts like holy hell, doesn�t it!
Anyway, enough hilarity. So, what have I been up to since last we spoke? Well, last weekend my dozy cousin got married again so we all schlepped down to Exeter for the gathering of the clan. To be honest I wasn�t all that bothered about going but Mater kind of insisted on account of Cousin Jungle not having much in the way of family who aren�t either mental, in jail, chavs or a combination of all of the above. Neither of her charmless sisters were likely to be in attendance, her relationship with her (mercifully absent) father is one best left for a �My Family Contains More Sickos Than Yours� tournament play-off and the mother that she hadn�t spoken to for some twelve or so years and with whom she has only recently been reunited could not be relied upon to not a) show her up or b) make her cry, not what you really need on your wedding day, n�est ce pas?
So. Mater and Pater were invited for the full ceremonials (civil ceremony in a castle, no less) whilst Sis, StepfordBro and I just got to pitch up for the evening celebratories (disco and buffet in a golf club function room. *sigh*) . A 300 mile round trip for vols au vent and Agadoo-do-do. *bigger sigh*.
Cousin Jungle looked very pretty in a WAAAY too thin way. The husband so nondescript as to be practically see-through. Mind you, he is an improvement on her last husband � a rockabilly hillbilly whose ideas about married life appeared to have come from a 1952 edition of �Women � and how to make sure they don�t get above themselves�. That Cousin Jungle went out to work and wore lipstick was racy enough for him, thank you very much � without all this newfangled �having an opinion� stuff. He�d put his foot down with a firm hand otherwise before you knew it, Cousin Jungle would�ve been �wearin� o� them flip-flops wi� the glitter on �em, wantin� to Get Snuggly mid-week and getting� her ear pierced AT THE TOP!� Devon men can be a funny lot. Tavistock men even more so.
I wore the fuchsia silk dress my dear friend Liz gave me for my birthday. And zebra print Dolce & Gabbana kitten heel maryjanes. BF wore his leather trousers�*pauses to wipe drool from keyboard*
Danced like a crazy loon woman with Jooj and Treac and Sis. Luckily the music was all crappy old stuff with dance routines that the kids could pick up easily so we pretty much had the dancefloor to ourselves flailing around to the Macarena and the Hucklebuck and all manner of stuff which I would�ve been rolling my eyes at had I a) been in my home town where I know people and/or b) not completely shitfaced. Even Pater looked slightly aghast as his youngest baby poured one large scotch into a glass containing�err�another large scotch and took a great swig, pausing only to give the thumbs up and say �Cheers, Dad!�. Im dead lady-like, me.
On the home front, the kitchen is now pretty much finished. And here it is:
There�s still a bit of tinkering to do yet but BF tells me that it will all be finished tomorrow as I am hosting a party for his dad�s 80th birthday on Sunday. I volunteered for this some time ago � telling Suze to just let me have menu choices (she doesn�t - ie cant - cook) and numbers and I�d handle the rest. Silly me, I thought that a pretty fucking special thing like a dad�s 80th birthday party would mean a pretty fucking special menu, at least it would if it were MY dad doing the celebrating. A dressed salmon perhaps? Maybe Beef Wellington? A tea party with petit fours and teeny tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off? Even a splendid Sunday roast with all the trimmings? But no. Partly because she is a philistine and partly because she has no idea how to host a party, she told me the day before yesterday, ��Curry. Daddy likes Curry. Just a chicken korma and a bit of rice. That�ll be fine.�
Now, those of you who�ve been with me for a while will recall that last time we ate curry with BFs dad (his last birthday), because the poor old sod is old and frail and has Alzheimers and forgets to chew and is generally not altogether with us, he threw his celebratory dinner up all over the table in the restaurant, which is presumably why Suze and BF think it might be better to celebrate at home. But, the dish that made such a spectacular reappearance on that auspicious occasion? Yup. Chicken Korma. Surely anyone with half a brain cell might choose a different dish?
Oh, and get THIS! While Suze was telling me not to go to any trouble and that anything would do, really, she also said �Oh, and daddy likes his meat to be really tender�.would you like ME to get the meat?�
Well, lucky for me that she volunteered for that cos, otherwise, I would�ve just gone and shot two of the neighbourhood cats and skinned them for the feast. The fucking cheeky mare. She wouldn�t know a decent cut of meat if I smacked her around the head with it. Which I might just do.
Oh, and the dessert to accompany this splendid repast? �A Victoria sponge cake. With cream to pour on it.� Excuse me while I yell.
YOU DON�T POUR CREAM ON A VICTORIA SPONGE CAKE, YOU FUCKING PEASANT!
So, Ive been shopping today and have got all the stuff to make a chicken Korma (ground almonds, creamed coconut blah blah blah)�.but I also got the stuff for a vegetable madras, Bombay aloo, Tarka Dhal, Piaz Kachumbar and Tandoori king prawns. Daddy might not want to eat it�but me and BF will.
And I got some Happy Birthday candles, too, cos NO-ONE comes to my house to celebrate their birthday without blowing out some candles. No. One.
Suze has finally split up with Chum�s brother, with whom she has had a tempestuous relationship over the last year or so. He is a cunt, just like his brother, so it�s a relief to be shot of him, although he DOES owe Suze a fair bit of money and there�s a particularly unpleasant (if hilarious) story regarding a photo of a minge and some veiled threats-to-broadcast. One good thing which has come out of their break up, is that Suze now seems prepared to concede that BF *may* not have stolen the missing �1000 from his late mother�s legacy (remember THAT great pile of accusations?!). I would feel vindicated if it didn�t fucking well KNOW that it wasn�t BF. It was that light-fingered little cunt or my name�s not Queen Stepfie of Tart�except, of course, it isn�t, but I cant put my really proper name or then I�d have to kill you all and/or I would get the sack from my fabulously well-paid, yet shitty, job.
If you should be wondering why I am posting diary entries in the middle of the afternoon on a school day, its because I am off sick. I have got a very snotty cold and, just for once, decided to do what every other lazy-arsed git at Twat Inc does and actually stay home when I am sick instead of dragging my miserable carcass into the office out of some misplaced loyalty to a company which does nothing but fuck me over.
Needless to say, I shall effect a miraculous recovery by tomorrow morning as I am travelling up to London to go to the Couture Exhibition at the V & A - I shall tell you all about it when I get back, and doubtless a mouthful-by-mouthful description of whatever delicious luncheon we have at whatever swanky venue Sis has managed to secure reservations for. Oh Hoorah for a sister who is a chef!
Sunday is BFDads �party� *makes dismissive face* and then on Monday night I get to show off my new kitchen am having a jewellery party with all the girls from work, as I haven�t got any proper friends. Oh apart from Liz. She�s coming, too, but mostly to buy jewellery rather than stand about arms-folded and think �Harumph! I wonder what all THIS cost? And there�s her always moaning she�s got no money!�
Until then, I bid you adieu
Later
S
x
PS EDIT: Ive been back and tidied up the spelling a bit. Some of the above actually makes sense now!
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