At last – a cakerista who gets the instructions correct for Spendmas.
[See lower left-hand corner of lead image.]
I am very good (Olympic Gold standard) at keeping flat, and since 400g is the whole cake they must have read my mind, such as is left of it. ‘Whole cake’ is my very favouritest “serving suggestion”.
Anyway, that’s my Spendmas Day sorted, thanks to a large Red Cross Mystery Box from the Sis (as yet unopened – I have a modicum of self-control), a bottle of sipping-gin from the Bro and a slice of iced fruitbat from ASDA. Sis and Bro are both awarded an hour each on the Naughty Step for including me in Spendmas (but thank’ee both kindly as well)!
Oh there’ll like as not be open-fire roasted crumpets and pikelets for brekkers and the occasional Brussels sprout and Sage & Onion stuffing sandwich for tiffin, too. I am not one to neglect the lesser-known food groups, and STODGE is an important part of the narrowboater diet*.
*I am not on The Narrowboater Diet, mention here does not imply endorsement or a requirement to lose weight. The Scientific Data indicates that following The Narrowboater Diet will not help in re reducing body-mass index. E&OE.
*Not affiliated with S.T.O.D.G.E., the criminal and espionage specialists.
I added to the Apocalypse Comestibles yesterday by meeting a hairy Comestibles Dealer from ASDA (Every LIDL Helps) in the car park of the local marina, Venetian.
After a lonely but short vigil the lurid green van hove into view and stopped at the gate.
[Wasn’t Vigil the one who was always stuck on the space station, Thunderbird 5? Had B.O. and questionable personal habits, and nobody liked him anyway, that one?]
Headlights were flashed in code (M.R.H.U.T.S.O.N.O.R.D.E.R.N.U.M.B.E.R.126.96.36.199.188.8.131.52.4.4.5?)
I used my small but powerful Boy Scout-issue torch to de dah dah dit dit a reply (Y.E.S.Y.O.U.P.I.L.L.O.C.K.A.N.D.I.A.M.C.O.L.D.S.O.G.E.T.O.V.E.R.H.E.R.E.A.N.D.G.I.V.E.M.E.M.Y.S.P.R.O.U.T.S.B.E.F.O.R.E.I.K.I.C.K.Y.O.U.U.P.T.H.E.E.X.H.A.U.S.T.P.I.P.E.) and we agreed on use of Parking Space Number 11.
There then ensued some slight professional embarrassment when my Bread Dealer also arrived, brim of hat pulled down low, collar raised, glances furtive, a selection of freshly-baked crusty delights inside the raincoat cash only please (which reminds me…) and do make your selection quickly; for tis likely that the Bread Rozzers are about.
[I selected a large unsliced with squidgy interior and elastic crust, perfect for one thousand and one recipes involving the toaster and Mardymite and/or Pimm’s Special Edition Strawberry, Tangerine & Mint Preserve. My bread dealer then melted away into the shadows and we could both stop listening out for the waah-waah blupp blup-bluup of the sirens of a Bread Patrol vehicle.]
Not some little portion of my vigil (or was that Alan?) was spent alongside a large container of self-warming grit/salt, pondering its use during the depths of winter to give boats some grip and purchase when the canal freezes over.
I think that the idea is that it is mixed with the water, and makes it easier for boats to get up and down the lock safely. What will they thunk of next, eh?
In Meteorological terms it has been “…bleedin’ freezin’ mate…” o’degrees here of late, with that flavour of bone-dampening cold so much preferred by a small island bobbing about in the North Atlantic
or to put it another way, as the Vicar oft said during choir practice
and, when you consider and factor in the obliquity of the planet which in Imperial Measurements is today roughly 23.439281° of angular angle, it’s no ruddy wonder that most of us can’t walk upright after several gins. We’re too busy holding on for dear life.
How I remember it well.
Well, I sort of remember it, vaguely.
Here in Blingshire in the top-middle left sort of corner of England we are, methinks, in legal if not moral terms, under El Lockdown Tier II, Sub-Section Chihuahua, but with proscriptions on the use of suede footwear on alternate Wednesdays and Thursdays unless permitted by a permission slip from a member of The Established Clergy. Or something. No more than six people may gather outdoors unless playing professional football and/or pulling down statues of ancient worthies.
English football, obviously, not that American nonsense that’s more akin to Scottish Rugby.
This is patently very silly indeed, since one cannot by any means see the whole of the outdoors from here, so how may we be in any way certain that no more than six people are meeting outdoors in the totality of the county at any one moment? They really ought to blow a whistle or something, when it’s our neighbourhood’s turn.
I’ve lost it again, haven’t I?
Oh well, I never did have much of a grip on it.
We did, a couple of evenings since, have a most splendid sun-settery.
Personally, I blame the ra-a-a-ains down in A-a-a-frica (I hear drums echoing tonight – this is a dangerous neighbourhood for a plump, oven-ready chap – but she hears only whispers of some quiet conversa-a-a-a-tion).
Who the helly-hell this “she” is I have no idea, but I do wish that she’d stop listening in.
Right, I must away, chaps, and tend to my Batteries Domestique. We had a brief hint of pale and weak sunshine this morning, but we’re back in the fullness of our political dull grey murk again now. Isn’t it splendid how they make the weather match the mood of the country?
Chin-chin one and all. Don’t forget to fork the awling birds and threef the wrench hens and to toot the urtle doves (other carols are available). I shall be finding and mayhap even installing my Spendmas decorations today. I’ll show them in a future blog post, and you will be utterly amazed and shocked and awed.
Ian H., &etc.