Bang goes the last vestiges of my good reputation - as wife, mother or person
2012-09-30, 6:27 p.m.
In the next thrilling instalment of �I dont want to be that person any more� (which I still don�t really want to talk about, suffice it to say it�s a work-in-progress) L cut his hair.
As he is vain and a bit dense, I managed to convince him that this style would make him look like Johnny Depp playing John Dillinger. Silly arse. Still, I think it looks really nice and its waaaaaay better than the �Frank Gallagher as Jeebus� look he�d been rocking for some time now.
When he wears his reading glasses he looks positively professorial, which is ironic if he�s wearing the reading glasses to try to work out how to switch the TV remote from Newsnight to Sexcetera, I guess.
Yeh. Work-in-progress, my friends. That�s what it is. With an added side of �for better for worse, in sickness and in health� and all that other stuff.
Had a really bad cough and cold since early last week, resulting in me losing my voice for a couple of days. Had a gig last night with the new band so it was imperative that the voice came back so I took a couple of sick days and took to my bed. I guess I could have gone into work not able to speak as Im sure they could have found me something else to do other than stand in front of a classroom full of kids but I get sickpay from my regular job and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a gig with the band pays approximately seven times the hourly rate I get from my �proper� job. If it was you, would you have cancelled the gig or took the sick days? Yeh I thought so. The gig was awesome, by the way, and now Ive got some cash in my purse for fripperies like�.umm�.food. Or petrol for my car. Or cough and cold medicine.
Back to work tomorrow, even though Im still coughing like a consumptive Victorian slum-child and my head is made up of pretty much 94% snot, 3% Benylin 2% mascara and 1% brain. Cant help thinking that is still more brain than I will actually need to use.
And next, ladles and germs, a cautionary tale. Never never NEVER talk to your children about your student days. Apart from that it will give them the false impression that they are allowed to behave as appallingly as you did (although, the squeals of �Mummieeeeee! You DIDN�T?!?!?!� may allow you a few precious moments of �of course, MY babies would never do anything like that�..would they?�) they will also become fixated on your worst excesses and those excesses will somehow become cool in their eyes.
Some stories have been shared with Jooj only (as she�s now nearly 17 and able to cope better with the PTSD that comes with finding out ones own mother was once a drunken, skiving slut-ho) and some will NEVER be shared, but the ones which come under the heading of �crap we used to eat� have passed into some kind of culinary folklore somehow. Maybe because Im now a pretty bloody good cook and make most everything from scratch these days, or maybe because they just like winding me up, one particular dish stuck in their minds and they pestered the holy HELL out of me until I agreed to make it.
No, it wasn�t the Snow Sandwich upon which L once dined whilst VERY stoned.
The reprehensible repast in question was
The Fish Finger Bake.
I replicate it here now � laughing all the while and begging you to file under �don�t make this under any circumstances�. Of course, should you be, like, an ACTUAL student, different rules apply, in which this comes under the heading of �Dinner Party Cuisine� (Cross ref with �Guaranteed to Get You Laid if Fed To Fellow Student�). Enjoy. (or, more probably, don�t.)
In the interest of historical accuracy, I add �student notes� in bold
First, assemble your ingredients.
Cook the fish fingers in the oven (because its unlikely that you will have washed up the frying pan from the last time you were rich enough to have bacon. Three months ago). Boil the potatoes (best amount of time is �until you forget about them�. This should ensure that they are already falling to bits and a bit mushy and will save time and effort when it comes to mashing�which will be the closest you�ve got to �exercise� since you carried that Party 7 upstairs to your room) and mash until no/some/quite a few lumps remain.
Tip the beans into a big dish, hack the fish fingers into chunks/cubes/ whatever (a butter knife is ideal for this job as it is neither sharp enough nor large enough and you will burn yourself enough times to have to go and have a lie down infront of Countdown�.or �maths revision� as its sometimes known) and scatter them haphazardly on top of the beans
Top the beany fishy stuff with the mashed potato. Scrunch up the crisps and sprinkle them on, too, with the cheese which you have grated (if you can, and you aren�t bleeding too heavily, pick out any bits of finger/knuckle which you have also grated
Whack it in the oven at whatever temperature you like (200C/400F/Gas 6 would be ideal but as the numbers have all rubbed off your cooker dial many years before you were born and the thermostat isn�t reliable enough to have that make any difference anyway, just do what you like really. The oven needs to be hot. If possible) and cook for about 30 minutes or so (ie 1 episode of Neighbours or other Australian soap of your choice. Or possibly 1 x Dangermouse + 1 x Trapdoor. That should do it.). Take it out of the oven when it looks a bit like this.
Dob it out into dishes (Other suitable receptacles, if no dishes can be found, include: fruit bowl, empty takeaway container, soapdish (don�t judge me!) or homemade newspaper Bento Box made by fellow student who thinks he can do origami � cannot guarantee bean juice will not leak through onto stone-washed denims tho. Sorry.)
Feed. To students or to children with a highly developed sense of irony, whichever you happen to have to hand.
if you want to know exactly HOW classy we are (in case you were in any doubt, after reading a recipe for Fish Finger Bake, ferchristsake!), you may care to note the following: Jooj is wearing a bowtie with a diamante t-shirt (why? Who knows) and has sunglasses on indoors, Treacle hasn�t worked out that �black bra under light-coloured dress� is tantamount to sartorial suicide and there is a giant pile of laundry on the dining table that I couldn�t be bothered to move before I fed my children. Mmmm, classyyyyyyyyy!