Serious.....and not so serious

2009-06-14, 5:35 p.m.
It's been a while, hasn�t it?

A whole bucketload of stuff has happened since we spoke last, and I haven�t shared ANY of it with you, my lovely cyber-friends!

My bad.

Ive started my new job, and it�s the strangest job Ive ever had. Because my project hasn�t actually started yet, Im trying to get involved in as much background stuff as I possibly can. Working for a charity is a strange enough transition to make, let alone a charity which takes in so many of life's disadvantaged persons.

I remember saying that I wanted a job that didn�t make me cry. I am sorry to say that has not happened. Even sitting here, typing this, there's a big lump in my throat and Im reading the screen through eyes that are blurry and prickly. Ive sniffed once or twice too. Don�t get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the job as such. Its more that�umm�I have been left, after a week of shadowing a fellow project manager, feeling ashamed. Ashamed that I am so shallow as to have put to the back of my mind huge swathes of society and to pretend that they don�t really exist, just so I wouldn�t be a 'bit embarrassed' about having to deal with them. I issue an all encompassing apology to those with dementia, to those who are old and frail and to those with learning disabilities. To the physically and mentally handicapped, to those nearing the end of their life and to those whose lives are just beginning and who have the misfortune to not fit into the criteria that I had previously decided was 'normal'. I am so very sorry. I am ashamed of my ignorance, my distaste and my inability to see past the disability to the person behind.

I salute those who care for you. Not the paid health care professionals, who have made a conscious decision to 'care', but to the unpaid and unrecognised mothers, sisters, fathers, brothers and children who care for a loved one because, well, that�s what they do. Were I in their position, I don�t know if I could be half the people that they are.

My project is designed to help those unpaid carers. I promise to do my job to the absolute best of my ability. I don�t think I could live with myself if I don�t.

I am Stepfordtart: shallow, unfeeling and utterly utterly ashamed.

Next week I am driving up north to attend a training course. It will enable me to train others in how to cope with being a carer. I cannot help feeling something of a fraud. The pay for this job is crap, the offices are shabby and disorganised, my co-workers are unprofessional, a bit bonkers and generally 'not corporate' but its me who feels totally de-skilled. I cannot help thinking that this job may not boost my career path to dizzying heights, but Im pretty sure it will make me a better person.

Feel free to vilify, admonish and chastise me. Ive been doing it to myself all week.


Oh, I forgot to tell you about our wedding anniversary! We'd talked about maybe going away for the weekend but I just couldn�t justify the cost when I wasn�t sure that I would be working and was trying to conserve as much cash as possible. Even one night in a modest hotel was looking like costing the same as a couple of weeks grocery money and, well, I think it would have taken the edge off the fun we would have had, if all the time we'd been away I was thinking about how many more weeks we were going to have to live off pasta "just with a bit of butter and pepper cos its best like that" and other such piss poor excuses that you have to make when you're broke and its dinner time.

So we made a proper grown up decision and decided to stay home. The phones were switched off, the front door stayed locked (people have a tendency to just wander in � the door bell's been broken for months and we've gotten used to friends just calling out "Hey guys! Its us!" as they make their way through the house to the bar!) and, just for once, the sun shone on the righteous!

L had been suffering with an embarrassing ailment that had made sitting down, walking and just about everything else that could be done below the waist, pretty painful. I suggested just lying on a blanket in the garden might be less of a trauma for him and after a little gentle persuasion (and assurances that, no, we definitely AREN'T overlooked by any of the neighbours) my delightful husband experienced the joy that is Sunbathing In The Buff for the first time in his 47 25 years on this planet.

After 30 seconds or so he said "Fucking hell, this is great! I could deffo get used to this!". I didn�t laugh too much at the man who, last year, was a bit freaked out by the sheer proliferation of nudey beaches in Corfu when we were on our honeymoon.

Me, Im pretty much OK with being naked and, coupling that with some slight voyeuristic tendencies (Oh, shut up. If God hadn't meant me to look, he wouldn't have invented mirrored sunglasses and excellent periphery vision), has made me think that perhaps our next 'no kids' holiday might involve a slightly lighter suitcase. Not sure I could do a full naked holiday but, hey, a few less clothes might not be a problem. Don�t worry, I'll spare you the holiday snaps!

Once the sun had gone down enough to make sunbathing pretty pointless, L went off for a shower and I lit the lanterns in the garden and set up a little table and chairs underneath the trees. The champagne was in the ice bucket, the table laid with the proper grown up crockery and by the time L came down for dinner (dressed, I suppose, somewhat unconventionally for the full dining experience, in just a towel) we'd almost made ourselves believe that we weren't in our garden in Chigley but were, instead, dining under the stars in some far flung corner of the globe.

I'd skipped the entr�e (mostly so we would have room for dessert!) and had moved straight on to a main course of Coquilles St Jacques, crusty bread and green salad. I know its an old fashioned dish but, oh, they are SO delicious and well worth the effort if you've got something special going on. Im not sure I really want to always subscribe to the 'simple and easy' school of cooking � not when it�s a special occasion. Sometimes you've just got to put the hard graft in to produce something special, haven�t you? And besides, you can buy little bags of ready-prepared scallops in Asda if you aren�t very good at 'dealing with' shellfish and then you're only a white-wine-and-mushroom-sauce away from a really impressive supper dish. Oh go on, have a go!

For dessert, I'd revisited a recipe I first made when L and I were first dating. We used to sneak off to my brother's flat when he was away on business, and pretend that we lived together. One night I cobbled together a dessert out of what I didn�t think my brother would miss from his larder. It was strange to be buying the ingredients again and to be trying to remember what I'd done first time around. It goes something like:

De-stone some nectarines and cut the fruit into big-ish wedges. Press them into a bowl of brown sugar until the cut sides are pretty much covered. Don�t worry about the skin side. Melt some unsalted butter in a non-stick frying pan. Once the butter's nice and hot, put the nectarine slices in the pan, sugar side down and fry (without jiggling them around too much) until they start to get a bit crusty and caramelised around the edges. Turn the slices over and fry the other side the same way. Some of the sugar will fall off and will mix itself into the melted butter to boil into a caramel/butterscotch sauce. Once the fruit is all done, move it over to one side of the pan and tip a decent sized glug or two of bourbon into the 'sauce'. If you are feeling brave, tip the pan slightly so the bourbon fumes catch light. Try not to burn your brother's flat the house down. If you aren�t good with flamb�ing, don't worry, just bubble the sauce in the pan for a bit until its all nicely combined. Scoop the fruit out and arrange it nicely in individual dishes, with the bourbon butterscotch poured over. If you are a pig and have no regard to the health of your arteries, a dollop of double (heavy) cream is pretty good on top.

As we still had some champagne left, and it doesn�t keep, we drank it.

It was a good day.


Treacle, whilst out shopping, deciding where to go for lunch � "Could we go to Subway? I'd really like one of those Meatball Marijuana things."
Me � "Yeh. I think I could probably do with one of those, too."


The week before last was also L's birthday so we had a bit of a party in his honour. David and Venus cast off their winter woollies in favour of their party wear:

david and venus ready to party

Don�t they just look splendid! David came up trumps with the Hostess Bouquet, too, love him (although, I notice that bitch Venus turned up empty handed again!). Trev brought a banjo, we lit the fire pit and dangerously threw on half a tree, shoving it into the flames little-by-little as it burned down, drawing on the expertise of the one guest who is a leading firefighter to ensure that all safety procedures were strictly adhered to. This seemed to manifest itself in the rest of us calling "Is that dangerous yet?" and waiting for him to finish swigging from his beer before he glanced over and said "Nah. It looks OK". I wont name him in case his superiors are reading.

A bit later on, once enormous quantities of alcohol had been consumed, it got a bit chilly outside so we all came in. Ian generously put the fire out by peeing on it. And then going back two beers half an hour later to 'make sure it was out'. We truly do have some lovely friends.

Even though we'd already drunk most of it, I still couldn�t resist quaffing some punch, direct from the fountain.

fountain of youth cocktails

I am class, as you can surely see.


So, now you're pretty much up to speed on all things Stepfieworld. Buoyed up by the success of the Anniversary Proper Grown Up Dinner for Two, I'm repeating the experience today as Jooj and Treacle are at their dad's house. On tonight's menu, dear friends: baby pineapples, flesh scooped out and mixed with prawns, fresh ginger and a little mayonnaise and then piled back into the pineapple shells. Then roast duck with an orange and prune sauce and roasted vegetables. L will turn his nose up at the butternut squash, but there's spuds too so I think we'll be alright.

Later
S
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