On the move… again

Posted on 11 October, 2010 by Tina

Recent circumstances mean that Sniffytastic will very possibly no longer be able to have its home here, so it’s on the move again, most probably to www.sniffytastic.wordpress.com, but maybe sniffytastic.blogspot.com, depending on the features available to me.

I may even update things more regularly, or may just leave things as they are as a kind of tribute to a dearly departed, very special and much loved friend.

My online exploits won’t have the same bite knowing that he’s no longer there to issue a witty and derogatory response; I have lost my muse. Another friend, his partner, has lost so much more and I wish I could do something to ease his heartache. Maybe carrying on may help to ease his pain just a little bit.

John and Martin, I love you as my brothers and, without you, there’d be no me.

WTF?

Posted on 29 September, 2010 by Tina

For some reason, Firefox is blocking Sniffytastic. Cunts.

No explanation

Posted on 13 July, 2010 by Tina

I have absolutely no explanation for the two images below, other than I was high on the enthusiasm of youth, and I was a total nerdy geek.

Back in April 1989, I was coming towards the end of my first year at University, but I still enjoyed regular correspondence with an old friend from sixth form college where we’d spend much time laughing at a couple of my teachers (very good teachers, incidentally). Anyway, for some reason Dr Gibb and Miss Exley drew our attention and this cartoon, written on the back of a letter nearly a year after being taught by them, was produced at a time when I should’ve been learning the Krebs cycle for the umpteenth time. I have no idea what the content refers to, other than Dr Gibb’s partner’s car and my friend Peter’s car. Nice to see an early hatred of the Guardian building in me though.

Dicta Apr 1989 by cakesniffer

Tina Apr 1989 by cakesniffer

This little gem of a self portrait is quite good fun, it has my hair as it has been much of its poor life: mullet. My hair has three main states:

Mullet

Out of control mop

Accident

It’s currently a Number 2, having not encounter cutting implements since September 2009. The little dog has had four haircuts since then. He always gets better looked after than me.

Holiday!

We went on holiday the other week, to Northumberland. It was lovely! The little dog came and he had a fabulous time, enjoying the freedom of running around huge stretches of near-deserted beaches, biting waves because he didn’t know what they were. He’s so crap at water, just doesn’t do the things normal dogs do. I had to coax him into a shallow stretch of water so we could go for a paddle at the shoreline, but he froze in fear when the water touched his tummy and had to be rescued. Pathetic. But quite sweet. Once through that trauma, his bravado returned immediately and he was off hurtling around, harassing anything that he could get to without having to go through water more than 3 inches deep.

We did self catering, which is great because it gives you the freedom to do what you like and there are plenty of places that allow little bastards to stay too. So, you don’t have the worry of getting up for breakfast, people hearing you have sex (in the middle of nowhere… unless you’re REALLY noisy), the little dog disturbing people in other hotel rooms, etcetterah, etcetterah. And you can eat what you like too: cook for yourself a few nights, go out and sample the local restaurants a few others. Only this is where we came across a major problem because there’s nowhere to eat out in the whole county, nowhere open at least. Such an unbelievably poor choice of restaurants in a county where you should be spoilt for choice. We weren’t.

“Would you like milk in your espresso?”

Anyway, I VOW that the next time, some numpty waiter/ress brings me an espresso in a mug and asks if I want milk in it, I will throw the offending, watery brownness over said numpty and drag them by whatever is easiest to get hold of over to the coffee machine and make them watch while I show them how to make an espresso, not an Americano, an esfuckingpresso! And then I will set them on fire, which I am now an expert on.

Because being on holiday, and the paucity of restaurant choice, meant that I did BBQ! Yes, I was allowed a box of matches and a couple of disposable barbecues and I set fire to things. “I make fire. Woman bath child!”, which loosely interpreted means “Ali, I’ll try to get this barbecue going, are you OK giving Rocky a shower?”

Of course, you had to burn food up there too because shopping in the supermarkets, nice and shiny as they are, was like trying to get supplies in post-communist Russia. The nice big, shiny, new Sainsbury’s in Alnwick (yes, where the castle is that they do the Hogwarts in, that doesn’t allow dogs in, so we didn’t visit) is shit. It doesn’t stock ANYTHING. No fresh meat counter, no fish counter, only one aisle for fruit and veg, absolutely terrible shop. And the checkout people are ignorant too. Wendy (who I got) was really pleasant to the older couple in front of me, taking time to talk to them about their holiday there, and when she came to me, she threw my stuff at me (struggling to identify a lemon in the process) and barely made eye contact with me throughout the transaction. Witch.

But don’t let any of this, or gun-wielding maniacs on the run from the Police (we were in Rothbury the week before, don’t you know), put you off Northumberland. It’s a beautiful part of the world and I’d highly recommend it.

And I’m sure there are some wonderful places to eat there too. Just not the Olive Tree in Bamburgh. Got that? The Olive Tree in Bamburgh has the worst service I’ve EVER ENCOUNTERED in my entire life. Shame really, since the food was pretty nice. But bloody hell, here are a few tips:

Don’t ignore people when they arrive – about four people walked past us when we arrived without even acknowledging our presence, and it wasn’t busy

When asked “Do all these spotlights flicker, or is it just this area of the incredibly brightly-lit restaurant where diners are given a free migraine?”, don’t just shrug your shoulders

When asked to “please bring the olives with our drinks”, do NOT bring drinks, starters, THEN olives.

Try putting some bottles of water in the chiller and if you don’t have a chilled one, BRING SOME FUCKING ICE! Don’t serve it at 24°C, for fuck’s sake.

If a waitress asks “would you like coffee after your dessert?” and this is confirmed with a very affirmative “yes, AFTER dessert please”, don’t bring it BEFORE the dessert, then bring exactly the same cups of the worst excuse for espresso I’ve ever seen once the diner has had chance to finish their pudding.

Never, ever, EVER ask somebody if they want milk in an espresso, that would make it an Americano. If you don’t know your coffees, you shouldn’t be anywhere near a coffee machine.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

But anyway, for a Fawlty Towers dining experience – go to the Olive Tree at the Lord Crewe Hotel, Bamburgh.

Love and the common people

Posted on 16 May, 2010 by Tina

I am a confirmed and happy atheist; I make no secret of this. For all my thirty-ahem-nine and a bit years, I have never felt the presence of a deity within or without me. Logic tells me that the existence of any sort of higher being is simply not possible – my take on life tells me that such a supernatural caretaker is unnecessary.

While I accept that personal faith is often beneficial for believers, I have a strong dislike of organised religion and how it is used for subjugation, how it used to find excuses to turn people against one another, to be downright fucking nasty. Conversely, many people with faith take great comfort from their beliefs, they use their scriptures for guidance on how to behave in a way that makes them living examples of their gospel.

Good behaviour, citizenship, morals, ethics, philanthropy are not the exclusive realm of the religious though and humanists take the world view that all are treated equally and with respect, irrespective of belief. They believe in the good stewardship of the planet, based on rational thought and reason, and that.

So, if you take a humanist like me (I guess, if you’re really bothered with labels) and a Christian like my girlfriend, you might expect there to be potential for conflict. I guess I’m lucky, I’ve got one of the good ones who has a pragmatic relationship with the scriptures, one who has the intellectual ability to see past her preacher’s sometime literal interpretations of the bible. She lives her life according to Christian deeds, rather than words. And hallelujah for that. We don’t talk about the things we know to be contentious (evolution is out of the question, well, creationism is) and we get along with it. I have absolute respect for her and her faith, she has respect for my lack of any and would never try to pressure me into believing.

We were having a discussion the other week and asked her if she’d prefer it if I was a Christian and she answered, “I only wish you could feel what I feel when I worship.”

“But how do you know I don’t feel that anyway? There are times when I’m out and about, or I read something, or see something, or hear some music, and it fills me with wonder and I get a great deal of energy from it. Honking geese, for example!”

“Yes, I know that, but this is something that completely fills you, something tremendous.”

“What, like the first time I heard you tell me you loved me?”

“No, like the first time you thought you heard me to tell you I love you.”

Power to the people
We have a new government with a Mega Prime Minister, it’s exciting. The country is in a mess and the next few years are going to be rubbish no matter who is in charge, but a coalition of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats might be just what we need. I’d describe myself as a liberal Conservative, so I’m actually quite delighted with what’s happened. If the Conservatives manage to get rid of a load of right winged fruitcake bigots, then this could be the best thing that’s happened for generations.

I’m definitely one for doing everything possible to help the vulnerable, to providing opportunities for those less well-off, for building real aspirations to allow folk to move out of poverty, but when it comes to certain things, certain people, I have no patience. Lazy slobs who for generations have lived on welfare need a good kick up the arse, no excuses: you’re offered a job, take it or lose your benefits. I don’t think I’m alone in this either. Out for a meal with my other half and a couple of her friends, the topic came up for discussion, along with a number of things relating to what the new government might do. We were also talking about environmental issues, how many people cycling it takes to power an average home in the UK, that sort of thing. In combination with a cocktail and a few glasses of red wine, my beautiful, benevolent, caring, Christian girlfriend made this statement: “They should be made to get off their lazy, fat arses and take what ever job’s offered to them. I’d make a load of new power stations with lots of bikes in and get the bastards to cycle to produce energy – this carries so many benefits. And if they refuse to do this, we should fuckin’ burn them!”.

No matter where you go
…Asda is horrible. Up there with Asda Hume in terms of taking the prize for supermarket scum is Asda Bolton, which I discovered today. In fact, I’ve discovered that every supermarket in Bolton is patronised by the most hideous people, even the Sainsbury’s there leaves me feeling dirty.

I’m off to write to our new Energy Secretary with my idea to build a Super reactor in the heart of Bolton.

Students are wankers

Posted on 1 May, 2010 by Tina

I’m not sure I need to add anything further to qualify the statement made in the title. I encounter many students from universities in Manchester. These encounters often occur as I try to battle my way the length of Oxford Road to get from the big hospital where I work to the crank veggie healthfood shop a mile or so away. By the time I have repeated the round trip, I am often on the verge of trying to kill somebody by ramming a spinach and chickpea calzone and Greek loaf down their stupid, ignorant throats.

The reason for this? Students. They walk in their groups, dressed way too fashionably, pumps on their shuffling feet that they can’t be bothered to pick up off the floor. They walk into me, they block my way, they’re too engrossed in their texting, eyes down, to notice that they’re about to collide with me. Such self-absorption cannot be healthy, such a lack of awareness must bring with it all sorts of dangers – mainly from people like me who, one day, will snap and go on the rampage with a responsibly-sourced canvas bag filled to the brim with heavy vegetarian delights, Moleskine notebooks and mechanical pencils.

That’ll learn ’em!

Only sadly, it won’t. But it might get me a few months’ rest in a psychiatric hospital while they “do tests”.

Veganism
The reason I visit the crank cafe is because it was suggested to me by mental vegan Ruthie when she was trying to assimilate me into the Borg of radical feminist lesbian, rentamob, anarchist vegans. I thought I’d give it a go, as it’s something that’s intrigued me, however I knew that I’d never seriously consider this is a lifestyle choice. Vegetarianism, a definite possible, but veganism, absolutely not. It’s not just a case of making a choice of what you eat or don’t eat, or wear, or feed your dog, or clean yourself or your house with….. there also seems an extremist core that turns what people eat into a political argument. And you can kind of see why this is; vegans don’t want animals to be abused, in any way. And many feel so strongly that they see that they’re not being true to themselves unless they actively try to do something to change humans’ view of their relationship with animals that we share the planet with. In fact, the term “speciesism” is used in relation to this and, with my “I hate people, what gives us the right to ride roughshod over the planet, I wish we’d all just die off and give the rest of the world a chance” head on, I can see what they mean. But then things start getting a bit warped; people who use animal products have been likened to child rapists; we’re accused of a global holocaust; we basically deserve to rot in hell.

So the dogmatic world view of vegans put me right off them. And the fact that the one I was sort of seeing (well, not seeing: texting mainly, the odd bit of instant messaging, but not seeing) was absolutely fucking mental was a slight turn off too. As was vegan food if truth be known. It’s all too processed. You buy meaty sausages from a good butcher, you know you’re getting pork from happy pigs with nothing else but seasoning, some herbs and a bit of fat for flavour. Vegan sausages? Processed shite. It’s all processed shite and I don’t like processed food.

Besides, I like sausages, I like ice cream, I love sardines, butter, the odd bit of cheese. And what’s more, if we suddenly stopped eating meat and using animal products, such as dairy (which I acknowledge is cruel), what would happen to all the animals? All these animals that have been domesticated over thousands of years, what would we do with them? And how the hell would they learn to live in the wild?

But anyway my foray into the strange, dark World of the Translucent People, introduced me to a fabulous cafe and veggie health food shop, and to the delights of spinach and chick pea calzone. I won’t name them, because if they searched for themselves and found their name associated with “cranks”, “extremists”, “fucking nutcases”, etc, I think they might be offended. While it’s OK to use such terms in a very tongue in cheek way (with the exception of when I refer to nutjob Ruthie and her merry band of weirdo extremists), even I concede that it’s not fair to risk having a decent business being linked to them.

I wonder how easy it is to start a political movement based on food that you won’t eat? I could certainly think of some foods that should be outlawed. Cottage cheese fans everywhere should be quaking in their boots.

If only…

Posted on 14 April, 2010 by Tina

I have this thing about mechanical pencils. Actually, I have this thing about stationery in general. As a child, I’d look forward to Saturday afternoon when I could catch the bus into the city, or walk to the local shopping precinct and peruse the shelves of the stationers. I was particularly fond of the local stationers because it was also a tobacconist which sold pipes made of the most beautifully turned wood. It was a fascinating place for me and I’d spend a good amount of time in there while I decided what to spend my pocket money on for that week.

I remember particular felt tip pens and mechanical pencils where the thick lead was gripped in a vice-like mechanism, rather than the more sophisticated designs of those you can buy today. Then there were the notebooks, pads of drawing paper, drawing pencils. Heaven.

My fascination with office supplies grew through my childhood and has stayed with me since. Being a university student opened up a whole new world of possibilities – I discovered the Oxford Magna Pad, which came in both narrow (blue) and broad-ruled (green) varieties. My small, intricate handwriting was always lost within those broad spaces, so I’d naturally opt for the blue Oxford note pad.

In my second year, I shared a house with fellow students who I’d met as a fresher. Kathman! (from Sunderland) had decided that it was OK for her boyfriend Keithman! (self-styled bo-ho artist layaboy, also from Sunderland) to come and live with us all – she’d asked one of our friends and her approval was seen as being universal. Kath and Keith had been to Ireland, man, during the summer vacation and they’d discovered all things Celtic and Van Morrison, Van Man. Unfortunately, Kath and Keith had the bedroom above mine and they enjoyed regular noisy sex. “Oh, Keith MAN! MAN KEEEEITH!!!”, the cries drifted through the floor into my bedroom a few nights a week. It was OK though, they were enjoying themselves, it was amusing rather than intrusive and I had other things to think about… like studying, surprisingly enough. Oh and drinking. But anyway I still enjoyed nipping into the University Union shop on occasion and replenishing my supplies of paper, pens, pencils, whatevers. I returned home from lectures one evening to find Kathman, Keeeeeeeithman and a couple of other friends already in the kitchen (they were arty types and only did about 12 hours of lectures each week – apart from Keeith, who pretended to be sensitive and artsy). I proudly showed them my latest stationery purchase, a hard-backed lab book, square ruled, beautiful.

“Tina-man,” Kath exclaimed, “I swear you love stationery so much that you get an orgasm every time you go into that shop…. man!”

“Well, Kath,” I retorted, eyes shifting between her and Keith “at least I don’t get an orgasm every time I go to bed!”

I still can’t think whether that was a witty or ridiculous thing to say – a bit of both, most probably.

It’s Moleskine notebooks these days. I buy them, but rarely write in them. And mechanical pencils too. I love them.

Some might accuse me of having an unhealthy obsession with stationery items, that my love of them might be indicative of being somewhere on the autistic spectrum. Well, you know what? If I was on the autistic spectrum, I’d be able to remember where I left my favourite new mechanical pencil that cost me a fiver that I put somewhere and can’t bloody find!

Sudoku and other life puzzles

Posted on 8 April, 2010 by Tina

I was recently introduced to the art of Sudoku. It’s an art rather than an activity because there is nothing remotely active about being sat still and staring in utter confusion and frustration at a little grid that’s part-filled with the numbers 1-9. I had resisted joining the massed throngs of the confused for many years – in fact, this is what I had to say on the subject in 2005:

Soduko
These number puzzles have got the Guardian and Sunday Times-reading masses rushing for their pens. There are even whole puzzle books devoted to them – a bit like Take a Break only without the top tips and prize money. Apparently, it’s all about counting from 1 to 9?

These things are even worse than cryptic crosswords. Completely bloody pointless.
If people are that bored, why don’t they just go and have half an hour sorting themselves out?

…until my girlfriend told me that she thought I’d enjoy doing them.

“But no, you don’t understand!”, I pleaded with her, “I have an extremely addictive personality and things like this affect my fine neurochemical balance really badly. I should really avoid them.”

“Nonsense, T. You’ll enjoy them. I can’t believe somebody like you, with your intellect and borderline personality disorder isn’t already addicted to doing them. Stop making excuses and give it a go.”

So I did, a couple of months ago. I started with the easy one in the Times, and moved up to mild and difficult fairly quickly. I complained that fiendish were too hard for me. “Oh, I can’t do fiendish,” she responded. I questioned this and said that if something had a solution, you can solve it – it just takes time.

Three hours later, we were still staring at the little grid of numbers that had been partly filled in in pencil. I was on the verge of taking my mechanical pencil and stabbing myself in the eye with it when the solution started coming to me. And there it was, my first completed Fiendish Sudoku!

I can do the Super Fiendish now, they’re great. So what do you move on to next; just a blank grid that you fill the numbers in yourself? I’m going for the easier option of a lifetime addiction to crack cocaine or crystal meth.

Of course, I get quite competitive with sudoku these days; never allowing anybody to look at the puzzle I’m working on. My sister tried this on the other day as I was working on the puzzle in my dad’s paper. She’d been telling me that I had the wrong method, that I should try to solve one grid at a time (??? – think about this one for a moment). Anyway, I completed it once she’d departed and took pleasure in showing her how it was done:

I love mechanical pencils.

Anyway, puzzles and riddles irritate me. I’d never be able to be a heroine in a magic kingdom where you can’t even go to the toilet without solving a riddle that has been set by some hag or goblin or some such. Could you imagine? Imagine living with hogs, goblins, trolls and the like. It’d be like living in… well, where I grew up in Salford I suppose.

Facebook stalker
But no, riddles aren’t for me, I like a simple life. But here’s one: why would somebody who certainly shouldn’t know my full name (other than through extreme naughtiness) and who claims to have never heard of me block me in Facebook? How can you block somebody if you’ve never heard of them?

While having two Facebook profiles can be confusing at times, it sometimes has its advantages. People ought to remember this, and consider who they might be dealing with, before they think about causing mischief.

Illness
Another puzzle that’s been plaguing me of late is my general lack of wellness: I’m on my second nasty cold in four months; I’ve been suffering from migraines; I can’t walk for more than two miles without my toes feeling like they’re falling off; my back constantly aches; my knees click; I often experience Bristol Stool Score Number 1s (with extreme urgency) in the evenings.

I think it’s something to do with almagam fillings, or being sat without natural light under an air conditioning vent in a workplace full of sick people (as you’d expect in a hospital, I suppose), and I’m absolutely certain that Gordon Brown is at the heart of the blame. I’d go to the GP, but I don’t like them and they always come out with some crap about me being nearly forty, obese, with the most terrible diet known to man. Personally, I don’t think there’s much wrong with a diet of pickled vegetables and Bendick’s bittermints, but there’s some evidence about balanced diets… blah, blah, blah.

My current illness started on Sunday afternoon. It’s nothing remarkable – just a cold that’s resulted in a few nights’ sleep being lost to aching, sweats, shivers and coughs – but it produced the BEST sinus goo I’ve ever seen or experienced. I swear it was an undiagnosed siamese twin. It was about 3x1cm, and it had its own skeleton, teeth, nervous system and anus. I’ve entered it as an independent anti-Labour parliamentary candidate for the upcoming election. With a better grip on real life in 21st Century Britain, more personality, and less slime than Peter Mandelson, it’s guaranteed to romp home to victory on 6th May.

Och Nock Nook!

Posted on 5 April, 2010 by Tina

I’ve been to Scotchland! Up to the West Highlands on the Ardnamurchan Peninsular where I visited Mr Garfer. It’s always odd meeting somebody who you’ve known for a while, and meeting Mr Cake Face was no different I suppose.

Anyway, it’s a stunningly beautiful part of the world where you can go and lose yourself, something that everybody should do on occasion to bring them back down to earth. It’s not that easy to get lost unless you’re on foot, doing a Tinker’s Rucksack, but since there are only about 4 roads on the peninsula, it’d be pretty hard to get lost while driving.

The people speak with that beautiful sing-songy voice and accent and are most accommodating, even to the English.

The only shame was that my visit was way too brief to get anything like a full flavour of the places to visit and things to do there. Hopefully one day, I’ll find myself back there, overlooking Loch Sunart as the sun sets out towards the Atlantic.

Yay! On our way! by cakesniffer

Beach goat by cakesniffer

Garfer by cakesniffer

Eig and Muck from Ardnamurchan by cakesniffer

2010_03_386 by cakesniffer

2010_03_305 by cakesniffer

2010_03_304 by cakesniffer

2010_03_294 by cakesniffer

Loch Sunart at night by cakesniffer

2010_03_163 by cakesniffer

Ardnamurchan lighthouse by cakesniffer

Ardnamurchan point by cakesniffer

2010_03_107 by cakesniffer

2010_03_084 by cakesniffer

Loch Sunart by cakesniffer

The future’s… shouty

Posted on 8 March, 2010 by Tina

For a few weeks, I’ve been ignoring telephone calls to my mobile phone that are from numbers that I don’t recognise. In fact, I always ignore calls in this way. That’s the rule, surely everybody knows this: don’t answer if you don’t know the number; don’t answer if the number is blocked. They’ll leave a message if it’s important and I can get back to them.

Unknown numbers can mean a few things:

Contacts who never made to your new phone’s address book when you changed, simply because you NEVER call or text them;

People who have, quite rightly, been removed from your contacts because they are totally fucking insane and you don’t want to accidentally contact them, even if they’re the last person available and a an axe murderer is coming after you (let’s face it, they’re likely to be the axe murderer)

People trying to sell you things

People trying to make you take “just a few minutes” to do a survey that takes 40 minutes

Wrong numbers still trying to get hold of “Sexpot” because they’re in Bulford again next week and would still love to catch up

People from Warwick Alumni fund wanting to know if you want to donate £50 a month?????? Planet? On? Which one?

Anyway, my reasons for never answering calls where I don’t recognise the number have just been vindicated – for the millionth time. It was a nice young man from Ulster tonight, speaking “veryquicklyaboutOrangebecauseI’mavaluedcustimerwho’sbeenwiththemyears”, so it was.

“Do you have broadband?”

“Yes. I have cable broadband with Virgin.”

“Oh,” this was the WRONG thing to say to a person trying to sell mobile broadband, apparently. “Do you still have a BT telephone line?”

“No, I refuse to have anything to do with BT.”

“I take it you have a laptop?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“Wouldn’t it be great to have internet access wherever you went with your laptop?”

“I already do, from my wireless broadband at home. I don’t take my laptop with me anywhere other than places that have wi-fi.”

“What about when you’re out and about though, wouldn’t mobile broadband through a dongle be great? We’ve got a great offer for a 1GB dongle for a tenner a month; 3GB for £15.”

“No, not really. My laptop is too heavy to carry around with me and I have an iPhone, which gives me 3G broadband when I’m out and about and free access to BT Openzone wi-fi.”

“Well, let’s just check out the coverage for your location. What’s your postcode there?”

He must’ve forgotten that I have 10 meg broadband with Virgin. Why is he doing this?

“Actually, my 3G phone coverage is actually really patchy here,” I interjected.

“Great, looking at this, the 3G coverage is really good where you are.”

“It isn’t, I can assure you.”

“So, that’d be a 10GB dongle for just £25 a month then, we can do everything for you now, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

“But I don’t need it, I have my [insert smart phone name here] iPhone when I’m out and about and I don’t carry my laptop around with me. It’s not something that I’m looking for right now. Thank you.”

Why don’t these people listen? Why can’t they see that you have no need for the services they’re peddling and move onto their next call, that might be more productive? Perhaps they just like talking to me. That must be it.

But the good thing about being trapped in phone conversation is that it always gets your bowels moving and I had a lovely poo straight after the call.

Toady holes
I’ve become an expert at batter-based cooking since I started going out with Ali. Or have I? I can do pancakes and I can do toad in the hole, I am far from being an expert in light tempura, or even a banana fritter. But anyway, I have discovered that toad in the hole is a really easy dish to make. And Hallelujah for that! With excellent sausages in regular supply, it’s so easy to whip up a batter get everything cooking away in the oven.

I had toad in the hole for tea tonight. It was very filling. I feel slightly sick.

Valderee
I’m going to get into walking more. Proper walking, with maps and GPS systems and arguments. We went on a walk up in Lancashire at the weekend. We dressed inappropriately for the weather, thinking it would be much warmer than the 3°C high that met us up in witch country. Still, it was really enjoyable and I learned a few things:

The little dog can’t do step stiles

The little dog can’t do cattle grids

The little dog can’t cope with sheep

The little dog can’t cope with bogs

The little dog likes eating sheep poo

“Access land” does NOT mean “footpath” – merely that you won’t get shot for walking on it.

A 4.5 mile walk takes MUCH longer than an hour when you have to negotiate bogs, hills, stiles, and all these in combination with the little dog.

Take a torch, knife, extra clothing, distress flare… just in case.

Anyway, it was lovely and I look forward to doing more. Here are some photos:

River Hodder at Dunsop Bridge

Rocky down a rabbit hole

I think they call this a “clough”

The lack of greenness indicates that the area’s been covered with snow for some time until recently

Ali with Rocky

Chillax

Posted on 3 March, 2010 by Tina

There have been a series of radio commercials advertising some sort of bath product – Radox, I think – that tell people to take a “selfish hour” and relax with Radox products in a nice bath or shower. The adverts are targeted at women, but that goes without saying because we all know that men spend the entire day sat around doing bugger all and they don’t deserve some “me time”. Accompanying the ads were a few testimonials from some women who described what they’d do with their Radox “selfish hour”. Using my qualitative research skills, the main themes drawn from this sample of three or four, I’m guessing, white English women are:

A hot bath with lots of bubbles

Fizzy wine of some sort

Mobile phone off

Telling lies about true location

Candles

Gossip magazines

Detachment from reality

Abrogation of responsibility

So basically, given the choice of spending a nice hour doing whatever they like, women would want to get pissed in the bath and not be able to call anybody for help when the candles set fire to the shower curtain because their phone’s turned off and everybody thinks they’re at work or the dentist or some such. And women fought so hard for the right to vote.

I have many selfish hours each day, I think… or perhaps I don’t. I don’t have the responsibility of being a parent, except to my dog. I have some responsibility towards my parents and other family members. I don’t have to look after my partner’s needs during the week, although I like to make sure I’m available to talk to her for about an hour each evening. I don’t have the responsibility of being a home owner, although I am a householder. I do have responsibility for myself and for the little dog. So after I get home from work and spend a bit of time with the bouncy puppy, doing a bit of tidying up, emptying the dishwasher, preparing my meal, preparing the dog’s meal, talking to my girlfriend on the phone, checking in on my folks, eating my tea, tidying up, putting washing in, taking the dog for a walk… all that’s left is an hour’s selfish time before going to bed. I do not want to waste that hour getting wrinkly and bored in a bath. Anybody who does should be made to do voluntary work for one evening a week, preferably emptying my dishwasher.

I HEART my dishwasher

After a bed, somewhere to sit, something to cook with, the first thing I’d absolutely ensure having in my home is an automatic washing machine: the singular most time-saving device of the last 50 years or so. Second to this is the dishwasher. I’ve always liked them, always liked the fact they get dishes so clean and use less energy and water than I do when washing up. I appreciate them even more since my girlfriend persuaded me that she needed to buy me one by using every single implement, chopping board and pan while cooking something that I can usually do in one pan with one knife, a spatula and a chopping board.

Having a dishwasher means that you have to acquire new skills; 3D tesselation being the most important. I also had to acquire new pans – shiny stainless steel ones to replace the wonderful hard anodised ones that had served me so well.

Stuff

I LOVE acquiring new things and I’ve been going into overdrive recently. It’s all due to my latent need for gadgets. What happens is this: I decide that I need a new something expensive (this time it’s a Canon Powershot G11… I think), but that I can’t afford it; my need for new stuff must still be sated, so I buy loads of less expensive items; within a week or two, I have spent the equivalent of a Canon Powershot G11 on stuff that I didn’t really want as much as the original object of my desire (I went through this with a coffee machine a few years ago). So, recent purchases include:

Two pairs of Adidas Superstars

Two Victorinox Swiss Army knives (one for me and one for my dad after he played with mine when it arrived)

A TENS machine (although this is useful for my bad back)

A 120GB iPod (because I like to use my iPhone to play on the internet while I listen to music)

Replacement pads for my TENS machine (because I will need them)

Windows 7 (because the release candidate was going to die on me)

The list goes on and still the Canon Powershot G11 looks at me from the eBay pages.

I might go and do some whittling to take my mind off material things.

The Snoring Dog

It's all just stuff

Yearly Archives: 2010

On the move… again

WTF?

No explanation

Love and the common people

Students are wankers

If only…

Sudoku and other life puzzles

Och Nock Nook!

The future’s… shouty

Chillax

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