Why me?

Christmas came and went in a blur. On Boxing Day, I drove 203 miles to meet Denty at his parents’ home for a couple of days. It was a good drive (I made good time and only had to stop once). I then had two restful days of loafing around the conservatory looking at the birds (and a squirrel) at the birdfeeder. I also received many, many Christmas presents from Denty Family in Denty Land.

Rested and happy, Denty and I headed back to London. It was very windy, but we had a good time talking about:

1. I tried to play “I spy with my little eye” on my solo journey up but the game did not last very long. I was very good at guessing.
2. A van with a “Squirrel Storage” logo we saw- It is a bad name for a storage business. They put your stuff into holes in the ground, they forget where they put it and they are not available whenever it becomes cold.
3. The car we would like to have in a year or two.

We spent quite a long time talking about the future car while cruising down the motorway. Suddenly, KERDUUNNK! Rattle rattle rattle rattle… The damned exhaust fell off. In the middle of the motorway.

Never, ever talk about getting a new car while you are still in the current car. Poor Minty.

For unto us a Child is born

Every warrior’s boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, and will be fuel for the fire. For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given, and the government will be upon His shoulders. And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

(Isaiah 9:5, 6)

Happiness is…

1. Finally having a home-baked chicken, bacon and mushroom pie (see No pie).
2. Finding out genius-self had passed all 4 papers in the last MSc exams.
3. The office is shutting in 35 minutes for the next er… many days.
4. Owning a lovely home with exciting fixtures (also see No pie).
5. Having loved ones to go home to.

In the loving and giving spirit of this season, I managed to write the sop above (I normally do not do Americanism). But we all know that I am writing this because it is the last 35 minutes before the holidays and I am bored at my desk but could not be asked to do any work.

Magic Denty thanks Mr K

In honour of Magic Denty’s heroic rescue in No pie, Mr K designed the official “Denty Shield” to hearten those who are meek and to strengthen those who are weak.

From this day forth, Magic Denty will attire himself in his Denty Shield embossed costume whenever there is a leak, short-circuitage, creakiness and any other general brokenness. My superhero (with his spanner, mallet and thingymajigs) thanks Mr K for the recognition.

No pie

Shiver shiver shiver… as I woke up this morning. I put on my thermals, 2 layers of socks, shirt, jumper, trousers, jacket, overcoat, scarf and then gloves before going downstairs. I was greeted by a very disgruntled Denty, who said “The boiler’s broken… ” (He probably elaborated on the problem, but the moment geek speak comes on, my mind goes blank). I think the gist was there was some pressure related thing. It wasn’t too bad though, we still have hot running water.

So we went to work. I spent the entire day dreaming of making the chicken, bacon and mushroom pie for tonight and emailing Denty to tell him that we should be at home then eating the pie. I even went out to buy some individual pie dishes.

Happily, it was time to go home quickly enough. I got home and went straight to the kitchen (I was that eager for the pie). Mitch turned the tap on.

Pfhfrtdsssssshhhhh!!! Water shot out from every angle of the boiler! The kitchen counter was soaked, we now have one large lump of sugar and no tea (electric kettle got soaked too). Mitch and I looked at the boiler and ran away, after turning the tap off first, of course.

We waited and waited and waited for Denty to get home.

As soon as Denty stepped in, “Dentyyy… a tragedy! The boiler is going pfhfrtdsssssshhhhh!”. Magic Denty stopped the leak. We will have to wait until the boiler dude comes on Thursday to repair the boiler, but at least we have hot water. No heating though. Shiver shiver shiver…

Then, I went to open the freezer. Kerrrdonk!!! The freezer door fell off.

Selfless trial

Mitch and I are responsible for the Christmas cake. We were under strict instructions to supply the cake or not turn up for Christmas lunch at all. Well, actually, our cousin Mel asked us (please note- very nicely) if we could produce some cake-like thingy for the post-lunch snacking pleasure.

In the moment of our genius, we decided (or I did and Mitch followed suit) to make a chocolate cake. We browsed through the trusty cookbook and found a the recipe of sachertorte. The cake is a dense, not overly sweet chocolate cake with a thin layer dark chocolate icing with shreds of chocolate on the top and side. It is one of the most famous Viennese culinary triumph (think quaint little cafes in Vienna when it is snowing outside, and you are inside with a strong cup of Viennese coffee and a yumlicious slice of sachertorte).

All that sounded very well and nice until we realised that neither of us have ever baked a cake in our lives. To prevent mishap and our being ousted from the warmth of the Christmas lunch, we decided to do a trial run. Very selfless of us, even after Mel showed her lack of confidence in us by helpfully suggesting which backup cake to buy in Waitrose (what a vote of confidence from our nearest and dearest).

It was utterly delicious! Denty even helped to melt the chocolate. I would have posted a photograph of the cake on a proper plate and setting, but it did not last long enough.

Tap tap slip

Tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap slip… tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap slip… tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip… tap tap tap tap slip… tap tap slip…SPULT!

Jolly hockey sticks!

I spent 3 years studying for a degree in accountancy. Then, I spent a further 3 years on professional accountancy exams and training. After that, I spent another 2 years of advance professional courses.

A couple of months ago, I suddenly realised that I have 2 accountancy degrees, a professional membership and countless other accountancy certification… and I hate accountancy! A new part of my soul dies every time I audit a piece of shit accounts.

I am now moving on… no more audits and annual accounts! Instead, I will be jet-setting to do some finger-pointing at evil-doers! Jolly hockey sticks! 

Fruity old socks

Some may recall the great cheese research Mitch and I started a couple of months ago. We were trying to establish the connection between cheese consumption and nightmares. The initial phase of the research proved to be inconclusive.

Last weekend, we resumed the research. I now have the reason to suspect that cheese consumption does not cause nightmares, but it is the root cause of odd dreams. Of all the cheeses we have tried so far, the most surprising find comes from the humble English wensleydale (with cranberries).

We had it on the night of 7 December 2007. On that night, I dreamt that I was on a very, very long flight. I waited and waited and waited, but we just flew and flew and flew.

On the next night, Saturday, I dreamt that Denty and I were on the run, so we ran and ran and ran. Well, I did, but Denty flew because he could turn himself into a hawk. Mid fleeing, Denty received a telemarketing call from Barclays Bank, telling him that they are now offering a new service. Barclays are now delivering curry and southern fried chicken. It was delicious.

On Sunday night, I dreamt that I was in a white room. I was sulking. I sulked and sulked and sulked.

This is a very English cheese, generally underrated (tastes and smells of nothing much) but its potency so far unsurpassed by any other. The stilton (with apricot) in the fridge will find this a tough act to follow.

Long live the wensleydale.

The misunderstood spot

His name is Spotnik and nobody likes him. He is a friendly little fellow who visits occassionally. Sometimes he comes alone, but other times he brings a family member or two.

Spotnik is not a dirty fellow. He does not smell. He does not harm anyone. Nevertheless, he and his family are squished, picked at, poked and doused in peroxide. If that is not persecution, I do not know what is.

He is a good sort. He does not hold grudges, although he may leave reminders of the pain he suffered. All he wants to do is to hang around, see the world and be left alone.