Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 17

It’s a Teen Thing...

Yesterday evening was bemusing.  Why?  Because I found myself on a double date with my daughter and her boyfriend.  This all came about because last week Eleanor informed me it was her anniversary.
          ‘Anniversary?’ I repeated.  Had she, at some point, secretly married?  Given that she’s not quite 16 years old, surely not.  ‘What anniversary?’
          ‘I've been dating M for a whole year.’
          Well congratulations.  But in my day if you had a boyfriend you didn’t celebrate going-out-together-anniversaries.  But apparently I’m way behind the times – as always.  These days teenagers celebrate not just going out together for an entire year, but in some cases going out together for a full month.  Particularly when some of them chop and change boyfriends at a phenomenal rate.
          ‘So,’ I furrowed my brow, ‘hypothetically speaking, you could even have a weekiversary?’
          My teen rolled her eyes by way of response.  ‘Can you give me a lift?’ she asked.
          ‘A lift?  When?  And where to?’
          ‘A lift to the restaurant of course.  Saturday.  To celebrate our anniversary!’
          ‘But I’m going out myself on Saturday.’
          ‘Well can’t you forfeit?’
          ‘No!’
          ‘But it’s my ANNIVERSARY!’
          Geez.  I have always tried to compromise where my children are concerned. A little bit of what they want, and a little bit of what I want.  In this case we both wanted to go out.  And on a Saturday.
          ‘Okay.  In that case you’ll have to come to the same restaurant as us.’
          My daughter looked horrified.  ‘You’re joking.’
          I wasn’t.
          My daughter prepared for the event like a bride.  A trip to the beautician where eyebrows were shaped and various parts of the body waxed.  Then off to the hairdresser where her hair was curled into a zillion tumbling waves.  Next a visit to the nail bar for a manicure and polish, before finally slithering into new dress, shoes and perfectly accessorised clutch bag.  She walked into the restaurant looking like a million dollars.  Which was only right considering she’d practically spent that amount preparing for the big event.
          Mr V and I followed Eleanor and M into the restaurant.
          ‘Your family table is here,’ said a bowing and scraping waiter.
          ‘No, no, no!’ my daughter protested.  ‘We have to have a table somewhere else.  Preferably a good mile away from the parents.’
          And so it was that Mr V and myself found ourselves at one end of the restaurant while my daughter and her boyfriend settled down to gaze at each other across a distant candlelit table.  They instantly began to bill and coo like a pair of turtle doves.
          How lovely, I thought.  How romantic.  I looked at my husband.
          ‘Do you remember when you used to look at me like that?’
          My husband’s eyes met mine, before diverting to the menu which he gazed at adoringly.  ‘Ooh, beef medallions.’
          ‘I thought you were worried about everything being horse meat in disguise?’
          ‘Not here,’ he stroked the menu lovingly.  At one point I thought he was going to kiss it.
          My eyes flitted across the restaurant.  Eleanor and M were holding hands across the table. I could see them deep in conversation.  I tried to lip read but unfortunately I’m a bit myopic when it comes to distance.
          ‘So,’ I turned back to Mr V.  ‘How about some romantic conversation?’
          Mr V put down his menu.  ‘Manchester United won against Norwich today.  Four nil.  Cracking.  And I’m warning you now Debbie, next Tuesday the boys are up against Real Madrid, so absolutely no interruptions okay?’
          ‘You once told me my eyes were like limpid green pools.’
          ‘Rooney scored a brilliant fourth goal.  And Van Persie’s back injury seems okay now.’
          ‘Do you like my dress?’
          ‘United hardly broke sweat re-establishing their 15-point cushion at the top of the Premier League.’
          ‘That’s thrilling.  Can we talk about something else?’
          So my husband talked to me about mortgages instead.  Offset ones.  And money.  And how to save it.  He’s very good with money.  So am I, but more so at spending it.  Although I did demonstrate a major bit of money saving flair when I splurged on a new car a little while ago.  I bought a Micra.  Fantastic at pootling around town economically.  Does umpteen miles to the gallon, and thanks to technology and carbon footprint wotsits and clean emission thingies, the road tax is only thirty pounds a year.  Thirty pounds a year.  The fact that I recently forgot to renew the road tax and was fined forty quid is neither here nor there.
          Which reminds me.  A man was driving behind a lorry.  Suddenly he had to swerve to avoid a falling box full of nails and tacks.  Seconds later a policeman pulled him over for reckless driving and tacks evasion...

Half Term

So half term is almost over.  Yesterday my daughter nagged me for some last minute quality time together.  In other words, shopping.  Fortunately I’ve been a bit flush in the last week or so, therefore tagged gamely after my daughter as she trotted around the Bluewater circuit.  First stop Forever 21.
            Now the last time we visited this shop, we came out with several shopping bags.  There was much oohing and aahing about reasonable prices and delightful fashion styles.  So what happened since our last visit?  Well the prices were still good – but the fashion was dire.  Nylon this and crimplene that.  Half the stuff looked like gear my granny used to wear.  Well, they say fashion goes in cycles, but I’m not sure I want to look like a 1950’s housewife.  I spotted a lot of monochrome stuff. Fortunately I still have monochrome shoes and a bag from the last time black and white was trending (surely not thatlong ago?).
            After two hours of trekking about, our purchases had amounted to zilch.  Previous fizzy anticipation of a good splurge had all but sputtered out.  Why is it that when you mustn’t spend money, everything in the shops looks fab, but when you have a few quid to spare everything on offer is dire?  Presumably it’s something to do with the Law of Sod.
            I walked past Ted Baker and perked up seeing a sweater with gems on it.  I’ve always been a sucker for sparkly stuff, be it in jewellery or jumpers, so dragged my daughter into the shop.
            ‘Good afternoon,’ simpered the shop assistant, ‘can I help you?’
            ‘Yes please.  I can’t find the price tag on this sweater.  How much is it?’
            ‘£149.  Would you like to try it on?’
            ‘No thank you,’ I trilled, and did a swift about-turn.
            ‘Mum!’ Eleanor hissed as I stomped along the mall, ‘you sounded really narky just then.’
            ‘Well I’m sorry,’ I sulked, ‘but what a ridiculous price to pay for a jumper.  And I’ll bet all those gems would only go and fall off the minute I showed them the washing machine.  Ooh look,’ I skidded to a halt, ‘Zara.  Let’s try in there.’
            We sailed through the doors and I instantly found another sparkly sweater, this time for thirty quid.  ‘It’s still too much,’ I said grumpily.
            ‘Mum, you’re not in Asda now,’ Eleanor murmured.
            True.  I picked up the sweater and also an absolutely gorgeous cream dress covered in...yes...more sparkles.
            ‘Size large Mum?’ Eleanor peeked at the dress’s label.
            ‘Yes,’ I said firmly, ‘I want it to be comfortable.’
            Needless to say the sweater made me look like a cross-dressing lumberjack and the dress wouldn’t even zip up.
            ‘Any good?’ asked the fitting room assistant as I returned the garments.
            ‘Could you please tell me why your dress label says large but fails to do up?  I’m a size 12.  Not 22.  What do you do if somebody with a....fuller figure...comes into your shop?’
            ‘Evans is just across the mall madam.’
            To heck with that.  I shall return to George at Asda where style may be dodgy but at least it does what the label says.
            Which reminds me.  What do you get if you throw a jacket and pair of trousers into a river?  A wet suit...

Horse meat? Neigh thanks...

Having finally decided that maybe, just maybe, I might like cooking after all (albeit simple recipes you understand) yesterday I was all revved up to cook.  Mr V watched me scribble out a shopping list.
          ‘What’s that you’ve written?’ he stabbed a finger at my notepad.
          ‘Mince,’ I replied.
          ‘No thanks.  I’m never eating mince again.  I like to know where my food comes from.’ Mr V skirted around the notepad as if it was a dangerous animal.  ‘I don’t care what it says on the package label, I’m not eating it.’
          I frowned.  ‘The label has always said 100% beef.’
          ‘But is it?  Where does it come from?  Can you answer me that?’
          What was this?  Twenty questions?  Mastermind?  I put my hands on my hips.  ‘Beef mince comes from a cow’
          ‘That’s the trouble with you Debbie.  You spend all your time on Facebook or writing.  You don’t watch the news or any sort of current affairs programme.  Nor do you read the newspapers.’
          True, true and true.  News at Ten (if it’s still on) was THE most depressing programme ever.  War.  Poverty.  Murder.  Rape.  Corruption.  Famine.  Hurricanes.  Tsunamis.  Child abuse.  Animal cruelty.  Lying two-faced politicians playing God to humanity.  And the newspapers are no better.  I can’t stand it.  So, rightly or wrongly, I’ve withdrawn and now live in my own rosy bubble.  And it’s great.  In my world I say hello to locals, walk my dog with neighbours, spend time with my parents, rejoice when the sun shines, put my umbrella up when it rains but still rejoice, and write fluffy nonsense in a bid to spread cheer and raise a smile or two.  Okay, it’s a cop out.  I don’t know whether it’s iffy hormones or just a bad dose of over-sensitivity, but I’ve reached a point where reading newspapers makes me bawl.
          ‘There is currently a lot of hoo-ha about horsemeat in our food chain,’ said my husband.
          Ah.  Yes.  Unfortunately bits of news filter into my brain via the car radio here and there (you can’t totally fail to hear some misery no matter how hard you try).  I’ve been a vegetarian for decades, so having the screaming heebie-jeebies at possibly consuming horsemeat hasn’t been a personal issue.
          ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,’ I said.  ‘After all, you’re quite happy eating cute ducklings, and dear little pigs that wag their tails like dogs, or a darling little calf, not forgetting sweet little lambs that go baa and skip around–’
          ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Mr V put up a hand to halt my diatribe.  ‘I’d rather not be reminded my dinner once had legs and bleated.’
          ‘Right.  So you’re main concern is that you’re dinner never said neigh.’
          ‘Absolutely.  So beef is off the menu.’
          ‘That’s fine by me.  So, tonight, lentil stew all right?’
          As it happened, I didn’t have to cook.  Valentine’s Day occurred earlier in the week so my husband took me out for a belated romantic dinner.  We had a curry.  Indians don’t eat cows for religious reasons, so there was no danger of consuming anything that had once gone moo.  Instead Mr V ate chicken.  I looked at my husband.
          ‘What?’ he paused, fork mid-air.
          ‘Cluck cluck cluck.’
          Couldn’t resist it.  Which reminds me.  What did one vegetarian spy say to the other vegetarian spy?  We’ll have to stop meating like this...

Will You Be My Valentine?

I’ve been alive for…ooh, quite a while now, and have never, ever, received a Valentine card from a mystery admirer.  Okay, I’m probably a bit long in the tooth these days, but hearing my teenage daughter chatting excitedly about this commercialized day of romance sent me crashing backwards in time.  Back, back, back, to those heady days of hanging around the letterbox in my parents’ hallway.  Would a rush of red envelopes addressed to moi and covered in SWALK graffiti plop onto the hall carpet?  The unbearable excitement as the postman delivered a cascade of mail…

‘What are you doing?’ my mother would enquire to my lurking self as she appeared, kitten heels clicking, dressing gown swishing, to scoop up the delivery.  There then followed muttered oaths about too many brown envelopes, and why hadn’t Interflora delivered?  Oh yes, even though she was married, she expected Father Bryant to have organized an annual bouquet in exchange for ironing his shirts 365 days of the year.

Women are hopeless romantics.  And men are…well, not.  They aren’t programmed like women.  They don’t pass a shop window and melt at the sight of a teddy bear holding a velvety rose in paws embroidered with red hearts.  They don’t stop and gaze at a brightly lit window of sparkly earrings or necklaces and think, ‘Gosh I have a sudden urge to splurge on the wife/girlfriend/fiancée/partner/earth mother to my beautiful child.  Nor do they pause outside Thornton’s and deliberate whether to spoil the missus with decadent chocolate and a professionally iced personal message.

When I first met Mr V, for our first Valentine Day he organized the most stupendous, extravagant, mind-blowingly vast bouquet of flowers.  It took several vases to accommodate all the stems.  ‘Oh. My. God,’ I kept shrieking as I floated around the house in a state of euphoria. ‘There is a romantic man who walks upon this planet – and he’s all mine,’ followed by much gleeful cackling.  What Mr V didn’t tell me was that those flowers were to last for every subsequent Valentine Day that has rolled around ever since.  ‘Do you know how much they cost!’ he gasps even now, which ever so slightly took the edge of that long ago exhilaration.

Never mind ladies.  With a bit of luck, a last minute bunch of roses will be thrust up our noses.  And we’ll ignore the fact that they are curled up supermarket flowers with an oops half price yellow sticker upon the cellophane.  Which reminds me.  A man, who shall remain unnamed, was asked by his friend if he’d bought his wife anything for Valentine’s Day.  ‘Yes,’ said the man who shall remain unnamed, ‘I’ve bought her a belt and a bag.’  ‘That was very kind of you,’ said the friend, ‘I hope she appreciates it.’  ‘So do I,’ said the friend who shall remain unnamed, ‘and hopefully the vacuum cleaner will work better now.’
   

Cooking Calamities

In the last three weeks something weird has happened.  I’ve had an urge to cook.  Now anybody who knows me on a day to day basis would be nervous to hear this.  Firstly, they’d wonder exactly what I’d cooked.  Secondly, they’d politely say it wasn’t their sort of dish – pretty yuck in other words.  Gordon Ramsey I am not.  Although I do a mean impersonation when staring at a charred saucepan with a smoke alarm shrieking the house down.
Due to having a hungry family who can only take so many meals of beans on toast, for years I’ve been one of those women who fill her shopping trolley with ready meals and spend a fortune at the check-out.  ‘The weekly shopping is how much?’ Mr V has frequently been heard to cry.  Have you ever seen a huge hairy man having the vapours?  It’s a terrifying sight.  So is it guilt that’s finally got to me?  Up until now I couldn’t have given a tossed pancake about being a cooking goddess.  But the desire to turn my kitchen worktop into a heaving mass of chopped herbs and fresh produce persists.  There is also a little voice in my head saying, ‘Perhaps you are trying to cook properly because your Christmas efforts for extended family were so shaming.’

On Facebook you only have to scroll through your newsfeed to see how people delight in posting pictures of dishes they’ve slaved over.  Whether it’s cupcakes or curry, pasta or puddings, friends and acquaintances display their nosh for all to see.  I’ve always refrained from doing likewise.  I mean, what’s the point of posting a picture of a plastic tray sporting synthetic mash?  But when I gave in to the urge to cook a simple Shepherd’s Pie (the equivalent of a dinner party recipe in this house), AND it turned out to be not only edible but delicious, I suddenly found myself joining the masses.  That is, whipping out my mobile phone and uploading a photograph to Facebook.  The excitement was so extreme I felt as if I’d won the lottery.  Mr V kept saying, ‘Did you really cook this or did your mum do it?’
A macaroni cheese came next, followed by cannelloni, lasagne and then…wait for it…the giddy realms of experimentation.  Stir fries with chilli jam and mouth watering chicken in red wine.  And then I tried a risotto.  Which was absolutely disgusting and tasted like socks.  Unwashed socks at that.  Never mind.  Two steps forward, one back.  But the point is, I seem to have found myself on an adventure. And – I never thought I’d hear myself say this – it’s actually rather exciting!
Which reminds me.  I’ve refrained from experimenting with cereals.  I heard a man drowned whilst making his breakfast muesli.  He was pulled in by a strong currant…

The National Television Awards

I was lucky enough to attend the NTA on Wednesday as seat filler.  I took my daughter and her boyfriend along, as they are avid telly fans and wanted to rub shoulders with celebrities.  I don’t watch the box and haven’t a clue who anybody really is, but I love the thrill of being back stage with glamorous people, crew barking orders into microphone headsets, the atmosphere electric as you are chaperoned in, and dodging men shouldering massive cameras that trail snaking cable.
          I was a bit anxious about getting there.  Weather had been iffy with snow and ice.  So I booked a cab with plenty of time to spare.  My daughter emerged from the house wearing super long false eyelashes and evening gown.  She looked like a movie star crossed with a Walt Disney animal.  She’d certainly have given Daisy Duck a run for her money in the eyelash department.
          Our taxi driver bucketed along icy country lanes at hairy-miles-per-hour, one hand slung lazily across the top of the steering wheel.  This style of driving might be terribly laid back, and gosh-I’m-such-a-cool-driver, but it’s not for me.  As the car swung left to right and left again, motion sickness began to rear its ugly head.  I decided to man up and ask the driver to kindly put both hands on the wheel.  As I opened my mouth, I spotted he only had one arm.  Yes, really.  Too late, he’d noticed I’d been about to speak.  ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.  ‘Yes thanks,’ I chirruped and instead ferreted in my clutch bag for a peppermint, ‘just wondered if you’d like a mint?’  As soon as the words were out, I realised the foolishness of this on-the-spot improvisation.  He couldn’t take his one hand off the wheel to palm the sweet.  And I didn’t feel on close enough terms to say, ‘Open wide and I’ll pop it in.’ Fortunately he looked at my proffered packet of Polo mints and declined.
          When we arrived at the O2 Arena, a strong wind was blowing.  Normally my daughter would be clutching her locks and lamenting about a hair-do getting wrecked.  On this occasion she was clutching her eyeballs and shrieking about her eyelashes taking off.
          Inside the O2’s VIP area, I ushered my daughter into the lobby of a male and female shared restroom to attend to wind damaged falsies and ruffled tresses.  A gentleman burst in, gave a cheery hello, and disappeared behind the door.  As I applied lipstick, the sound of the man relieving himself was audible.  ‘Mum,’ my daughter whispered, ‘that’s–’ she broke off as the man dashed out doing up his flies.  ‘See ya,’ he gave a cheeky grin.  I paused in mid-lippy application and did the British response to a stranger…small smile crossed with a grimace…when Eleanor turned back to me and joyfully said, ‘That was Keith Lemon.  Oh my God, I’ve just seen my first celebrity.’  ‘I don’t care who he is,’ I retorted, ‘he didn’t wash his hands!’ But my daughter was already hitting her iPhone and accessing Facebook where she joyfully told her friends she’d not only seen Keith Lemon but heard him peeing too.
          In due course we filed into the celebrity section.  I peeled away from my daughter and her boyfriend and found a seat.  For the first half an hour I was left undisturbed and watched a stream of unfamiliar actors and actresses going up to collect awards.  Half an hour later though and somebody in my row had to go up on stage.  Musical chairs then took place.  I jumped up, went to the wing and waited for direction on where to sit next.  ‘Over there,’ said one of the crew giving me a little shove, ‘front row, and make it quick because one of the cameras is about to do a sweep.’  I took off at a sprint…not easy in six inch heels with a two inch platform…and nearly went flying.  I was aware of my stilettos connecting with something soft and squidgy.  I flung myself into the empty seat, then dared to look at what I’d trodden on.  A cameraman, lying on his tummy and all dressed in black so he blended with the shadows, was clutching at his calves and whimpering.  The woman on my left gave me a disdainful look.  I shrugged apologetically as Dermot O’Leary, the presenter, burst into his next round of patter.  I looked sideways at the woman next to me.  She looked familiar but…it evaded me…I looked sideways again and…dear God…now there was somebody I did know.  Just two seats away, and one of the ‘boys’ from boy band Take That.  Gary Barlow.  I nearly fell off my chair.  And who was that sitting on his left?  I was sure I’d seen her somewhere.  Daily Mail?  Yes…it was coming back to me… she was the cradle snatching wench who’d so upset my daughter by taking teenage sensation Harry Styles to her bed.  She was called…ah yes...Caroline Flack!  And good heavens…if she was 32 then I was 21.
          Suddenly there was an interval break.  Julian Fellowes (who I’d never heard of prior to Wednesday night) came along to talk to Gary Barlow.  The woman next to me looked pained.  I suddenly felt sorry for her.  I gave her a nudge and sympathetically whispered, ‘I guess you have to get used to Gary being monopolized when you’re married to him.’  She gave me a supercilious look.  ‘I’m not his wife,’ she said incredulously.  Oh Lord.  She was probably somebody really famous who I’d deeply offended by not recognizing.  Rule number one.  Don’t try and chat to celebrities when you are a nobody.  They might be part of the same human race as you, but they’ve forgotten this.  Rule number two, practice your own haughty looks so you can toss them back.  I later found out she was Karen Brady, current vice-chairman of West Ham United and Lord Sugar’s sidekick on TV’s The Apprentice.  Definitely not married to Gary Barlow then.
          I managed to stay seated in my front row’s coveted spot until Nicole Scherzinger came off stage and wanted to sit next to Gary, which meant more musical chairs.
          My next spot was sitting behind Pudsey the dancing dog.  Now as a long-time dog owner and lover of anything furry, I just couldn’t resist.  I leant forward and asked the girl who’d danced with Pudsey to Gangnam Style if I could stroke her pooch.  Pudsey was as soft as cotton wool and much nicer than Karen Brady.  Pudsey smiled (literally), gave a couple of woofs and tried to high five me.  I sat back down and joyfully engaged in conversation with a fellow seat filler.  We agreed that Pudsey was superbly behaved.  ‘I wish my dog behaved like that,’ I said wistfully.  ‘I wish my children behaved like that,’ she replied.
          But the moment I really experienced a frisson of excitement was when Marie and Donny Osmond came on stage.  What teenager of the Seventies didn’t want to look like Marie?  Or have a mega crush on Donny?  Back then it was either David Cassidy or Donny Osmond screaming girls swooned over.  My own bedroom bore testament to my teenage crushes.  One wall was covered in pony posters, the other a grinning Donny.  Those teeth!  And he still had them!  And later, back stage, they both walked straight past me.  I couldn’t resist.  To hell with not talking to celebrities.  I automatically found myself saying hello.  Unlike cold Brits, Americans are so warm.  ‘Hello, I love your dress!’ Marie gushed.  And she was off, chatting like I was some long lost friend.  What else did she say?  I haven’t a clue.  Too dazed to remember.  And then she took my hand in farewell.  Took my hand!  ‘Who were they?’ my daughter asked blankly.  Which just goes to show you how time changes things.
          Which reminds me.  Why do actors enjoy their work so much?  Because it’s all play…

The Teenage Test

I think I’ve turned a corner with my teenage daughter.  You know, the corner you metaphorically take on two wheels as you flee from stroppy moods, scowls, huffs, puffs, and general whines of, ‘It’s not fair,’ or (drop a gear and hit the accelerator for this one), ‘Can I have some money?’ So what’s the reason for this shift in direction?  Well I’ll tell you.  It’s because earlier this week my daughter asked a question which, quite frankly, was astounding.  I see it as a milestone.
          We’d just finished dinner.  The table was covered in dirty plates and glasses.  The worktop was littered with paraphernalia.  As I put my knife and fork together, my daughter stood up and said, ‘Do you need any help?’  I’ve waited fifteen years for this question.  It’s nothing short of a miracle.  I was so gobsmacked I couldn’t speak.  So Eleanor took it as her cue that help was not required. And swiftly fled.
          I think the real reason behind this sudden thoughtfulness is due to her lack of input being flagged up whilst staying overnight with the boyfriend’s family.  The boyfriend is very practical.  Unlike his girlfriend.  So when he knocked on Eleanor’s bedroom door with a full English breakfast, my daughter was thrilled to bits and tucked in.  Downstairs there was a small matter of a kitchen looking as though a bomb had gone off.  Greasy pan.  Congealed saucepan.  Fat splattered cooker...you get the picture.  Being a teenager who has, up until now, not lifted a finger at home, it simply didn’t dawn on my daughter to lift a finger while away either.  And boys are boys, so naturally this boy forgotall about the mess.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Minutes later the two of them had hopped on a bus and tootled off to do a bit of shopping.
          When the boyfriend’s mother returned from work – tired and looking to cook dinner – she wasn’t too chuffed at having to roll up her sleeves and get scouring before she could even pick up a potato and get peeling.  When Eleanor and her chap returned, the pair of them were taken to task.  And rightly so.  But I’ve been flabbergasted at the change in my daughter since this event.  Her bed has been made, clothes have been folded and put away, laundry has been taken to the bin, and even her desk has been tidied.  So the secret to training your teenager is clear.  Forget nagging.  Forget pleading.  Or shouting or bribing or acting all depressed and downtrodden and miserable.  It’s simple.  Get somebody else to put the verbal rocket up your teenager’s backside.  Because your teenager might not listen to you, but they definitely listen to someone else.  David Cameron should take this on board and offer it as a public service to all harassed mothers of teenagers. 
          Which reminds me.  What is adolescence?  That period in life when parents become more difficult...

What is a cat's way of keeping law and order? Claw Enforcement.

I’m currently in possession of two legs that look as though somebody has been scribbling on them with red and brown felt pens.  However, upon closer inspection you will see the red bits are bloody wounds and the brown bits are scabs.  Nice.  Well not really.  It looks quite disgusting actually.  ‘Look at the state of your legs,’ said Mr V.  I have to agree with him.  The cause?  Our four month old kitten.
          Our ancient dog has reluctantly accepted a furry feline now shares the premises.  Pooch is under no illusions.  She might once have been pack leader, but all that has gone out the window.  When puss arrived, there was a power shift.  In ancient times, cats were worshipped as Gods.  And make no mistake, they haven’t forgotten this.
          ‘Ooooh, naughty Dolly,’ said my daughter upon seeing puss firmly ensconced in the dog’s basket.  No other creature would truly want to laze around on a smelly dog blanket, but the cat does it just to prove a point.  She is a superior being, therefore she can do what she likes.
          The minute pooch flops down elsewhere and nods off, the kitten turns into Karate Kid.  Thumps, squeaks and grunts abound as long ears are pulled and whiskers pounced upon.  And God help the dog if puss spots her waggly tail.  If pooch makes herself scarce, well there’s always human legs to have a prank or two with.  There’s nothing like being immersed in a new chapter of writing, thoughts in an entirely different world, only to be yanked back to this one by a kitten hanging off your trackie bottoms, claws clamped firmly in a mix of fabric and skin.
          Mr V is a nervous wreck.  His days of watching football and habitually twitching his toes with anxiety are over.  Not unless he wants to have them dived upon, bitten into and mashed to pulp by tiny sharp claws.  These days I’m never sure whether it’s Wayne Rooney causing him to howl or the cat.
          Meanwhile, as I write this piece our kitten is checking out the tap in the utility room.  Water is her latest fascination.  Which reminds me.  Did you hear about the cat that drank five bowls of water?  It set a new lap record...

How was it for you? (Part 3)

It seemed as though I’d barely waved off my Boxing Day guests when it was time to ring in the New Year.  Now in the past it would be fair to say that celebrations haven’t been frequent.  Usually Mr V and I are on standby picking up our teenagers from parties.  However, this year they’d absented themselves altogether.  I didn’t know whether to say ‘Hurrah’ or weep into a box of man size Kleenex for being obsolete.  I opted for ‘Hurrah’ and got on the blower to a local restaurant.  ‘Can you squeeze two more in this evening?’  They could.  Double hurrah.  So after a veritable feast (no rock hard Yorkshires or watery gravy in this place) we went home replete and awaited friends to join us for champers.
The conversation and drink were flowing.  My lovely neighbour, as bubbly as champagne and twice as pretty, indicated her ample cleavage spilling forth from her plunging dress and lamented about the regulation New Year Diet when...ding dong...more guests arrived.  They wanted to raise a glass with us.  ‘Come in, come in,’ I trilled.
Over the threshold they came.  Seating became a problem.  One gentleman opted to stand and positioned himself by the fireside.  His eyes repeatedly fell upon my neighbour’s assets while his wife began to look as though she was chewing a wasp.  I couldn’t even get her drunk as she’d been nominated to be the driver.  No such thing for the rest of us however.  I’m not a regular drinker (other than a Saturday night tipple if Mr V takes me out) but it would be fair to say that on New Year’s Eve I was...squiffy.  Certainly squiffy enough to go to bed leaving the back door open.  Still.  These things happen.  Nobody came in the night to rob or murder us.  If they had I'd have battered them (excuse the pun) with one of my leftover burnt Yorkshires.
Meanwhile, Happy New Year to you all.  Which reminds me.  I kick started my New Year with an IQ test.  The results were negative...

How was it for you? (Part 2)

After the End of the World according to the Mayan Calendar, the next event on our Gregorian calendar was...Christmas.  Did you survive it?  Despite my culinary skills being questionable, we are all still alive.
Not wishing to take a chance on Christmas Dinner going down the plughole, I had Aunt Bessie in to do the cooking.  For those who aren’t familiar with her, she also cooks for Asda, Tesco and Waitrose.  And she didn’t let me down.  Honey glazed parsnips, cauliflower cheese, Yorkshire pud and even gravy sachets were stuffed into my freezer to await The Big Day.  Suffice to say that I burnt her Yorkshires, turned her gravy to coloured water and forgot to put the wretched parsnips in the oven.  But dinner was edible.  The family put their knives and forks together and awaited dessert.  ‘Da-dah!’ I trilled and set before them a....treacle sponge.  My daughter frowned.  ‘Where’s the Christmas pudding?’ I tapped the plastic bowl (yes, a microwave jobbie) and looked from husband to daughter to son.  ‘Everybody moaned last year, so I thought we’d have a change.’  There was a slurping noise as the plastic bowl deposited a mound of syrupy stodge onto my reindeer plate.  The mess wasn’t too bad smothered in custard.  Aunty Bessie’s of course.
Boxing Day was a bit of a different matter.  This time family were visiting.  Mother and Father Bryant.  And sister and brother-in-law.  Including ourselves, it was a full house.  ‘What on earth have you cooked?’ asked my sister peering at the Red Thai Curry simmering on the stove.  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured, ‘it’s a Loyd Grosman sauce and very nice.’  My sister was unimpressed.  ‘I thought we were having cold meats, jacket potato and salad.  Haven’t you any leftover turkey?’  Er, no.  On account of it being as tough as old boots yesterday and the dog dutifully finishing it off.  My sister stared at the vegetables in the pot.  ‘Are they organic?’  I should have said yes, but I’m rubbish at lying.  She rolled her eyes and served herself a spoonful.  I think sparrows eat bigger helpings.
The piece de resistance was my chocolate and coffee cake.  It looked impressive.  The icing was hiding a multitude of sins...a misreading of bicarb of soda (I could have sworn the recipe said two tablespoons), burnt sponge and charred coffee granules.  Everybody helped themselves to a generous slice.  For a moment jaws rotated.  Have you ever had a synchronised moment where everybody stops chewing at the same time?  The cake duly went in the bin.  My mother, always to be relied upon in an emergency, produced an M&S cheesecake from the depths of her handbag.  She has all sorts in her handbag.  Need a tissue?  A painkiller?  A teabag?  Something to eat?  I jest not.  As Loyd Grosman had failed to impress with his Red Thai Curry, I removed a vast cheeseboard from the fridge and told everybody to tuck in.  My sister informed me she didn’t do dairy.  ‘Oh.  Have some cheesecake instead.’ I pushed the plate towards her.  Ah.  She couldn’t because...she didn’t do dairy.  I couldn’t even get her drunk to drown her foodie sorrows because her husband had nominated her to be the driver.
So that’s it for another twelve months.  Next year I might check out the cost of caterers.  Which reminds me, how does Good King Wenceslas like his pizzas?  Deep pan, crisp and even...