Caution, strong language

Saturday January 21, 2006

A lovely mid-winter day, sunny, and open-jacket mild. We took a trip to the Boston Tesco for weekend provisioning and so that Graham could return a lampshade he’d bought on our last trip and which proved to be unsuitable for the new, larger orange plasticrush lamp base he won on an eBay auction a week or so back.

“I really don’t much like this Tesco’s any more,” I said as we sat over coffee and croissants in the coffee shop. “Too crowded.”

“We’ll do the Skegness one next time. You’ve just sploshed coffee down your front.”

“Oh, rhubarb.”

“No. Just coffee.”

We were back home rather later than I like for lunch, so I prepared a bowl of fresh tomato and basil soup, served with crusty french bread and followed by a truly juicy danish pastry. It was much appreciated.

“That was yummy,” Graham said, sitting back and patting the place where his tummy would be if he had one.

I pushed back, too, and protruded the tummy that obscures the same place on my more commodius body. “You’re telling me,” I said. “Tummy comfortingly, taste-bud-tingly yummy.”

“You going to take a nap?”

“Think I’d better. I’ll never get through the evening if I don’t.”

“Off you go, then. Leave the dishes for me.”

As I toddled through I caught sight of the sky at the front of the house.

“‘Ere!” I called. “You’re never going to believe this sunset.”

He didn’t, either.


“You’re never going to believe this sunset”


He had to wake me or I’d have slept right through the evening.

“You gonna do some eBaying?” he asked.

“Nah. Not today. Ought to, but I’d rather sit back and enjoy being idle.”

“What about dinner?”

“It’s Saturday. You do pasta on Saturday.”

“Ah. Yes. Right you are, then.”

Given the glut of fresh tomatos I seem to have accumulated in the fridge, and the availability of fresh basil, he set aside his more usual putanesca recipe and produced a truly delicious fresh sauce instead, with those components served over steaming hot penne pasta. That was yummy-tummy-ly tasty, too, and I said as much as I sat slicing into a fresh juicy comice pear to follow.

“What now, then?” he asked.

“Pass the port, please. There’s a good horror flick coming up on TV.”

“That’ll do.”


Lines composed while watching a horror flick
This is a very bad movie, I remarked. As predictable
as very bad verse. Even you would find verse this bad
a difficult thing to make, he said. You wanna bet …
     “Please remove the head of Tony Blair
     I wouldn’t weep and I wouldn’t care.
     I wouldn’t wail nor run amuck,
     Frankly, darling, I’d not give a flying fuck.”
That was almost funny, he said. Yes, I replied. It
may be that I chose the wrong career.
John Bailey
January 2006, Lincolnshire



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