Made a lemon curd cake yesterday, while I was supposed to be 'working from home' (whenever I think of the phrase working from home, I always think of Terri Coverley in the Thick of It getting a phone call from her boss while in the car and saying 'Yes, I'm working from home today. What am I doing? Er..I'm driving to my sister's in Hastings').
So anyway, I burnt it. Here it is, lurking brownishly next to a lemon. This is my attempt at 'food styling' (next stop, Nigella!). Unfortunately my phone seems to have disposed of the flash function altogether in favour of a murky, Bergman-esque half-light. It is an Ericsson though, so I suppose that's to be expected.
The fact that it was burnt and dry didn't stop me from stuffing pavement sized slabs of it in my gob, though. Mmm! Another culinary triumph from the kitchen of doom.
I FANCY NANCY
In the dim and distant past, roughly somewhere between decimalization and the rise of the internet, I was a TV reviewer for the Sunday Express. These days, it's a right wing old lady scare paper aimed at people who think Enoch Powell had a point, but in the late 90s it was edited by feminist Rosie Boycott who had the novel idea of employing 'women'. It also paid well which meant I spent two happy years slouching insensibly in various restaurants, slugging back wine and waving my fag in the air. Anyway, it was a brilliant job, brilliant even when the new Pauline Quirke drama dropped through the letterbox, and I long for it to this day. So I was glad to see that the Guardian managed to turn its attention away from Tim Dowling's dog for five seconds to celebrate the work of Nancy Banks-Smith, a true master of the craft. Her writing is funny, moving, graceful and more comforting than hot buttered toast. Take that Lucy Mangan, you wittering nincompoop.
I found out today that have to go for a second operation 'down there', due to a harmless lump of tissue which doesn't bother me, but might, if left unchecked, turn into a second head and start talking to me about feminine hygiene issues. I'm not as worried as I was the last time, because I actually enjoyed the general anaesthetic (first time in ages I'd had an uninterrupted sleep) and being in hospital was quite a nice rest - a bit like being in prison with 25 magazines about Cheryl Cole and a bar of Dairy Milk. Plus, my gynecologist, Mr T ('it's an inclusion cyst you crazy fool!') is a pleasingly low key gentleman who looks like he enjoys a nice glass of brandy in his study, surrounded by leather-bound copies of the Lancet. Which is good, because you don't want some berk in a loud jumper messing around with your gusset do you? You don't want Dr Timmy Mallet or Dr N. Edmonds or Dr Steve Wright In The Afternoon diddling with your diddle. No you do not.
Anyway, here's a nice photo of the cause of all my problems in the fancy hospital waiting room today. Good job he's cute, that's all I can say.
6 months ago