- Some extra-virgin olive oil
- Some garlic (probably a couple of cloves) not especially finely-chopped, it'll be flavouring the sauce but also providing the texture
- A couple of button mushrooms if you really must
- Two large handfuls of marjoram, tear off the leaves and chop the stems up finely
- A large handful of mint (a small handful if you're like me and have been lucky enough to have some black mint growing in the garden), tear the leaves up and chop the stems very finely
- A handful of shelled walnuts
- Pasta of your choice
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Herbidaceous
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Probably being too honest for my own good
"So why aren't you married?" she asked."I like being miserable on my own and I haven't found anybody who would want to be miserable with me.""Oh well. If you just want miserable you may as well get yourself a baby. They're dead miserable, honest. All they do is cry and scream and eat and cry and poo and cry a bit more. And they wake you up in the middle of the night so that they can cry and scream and poo.""I've known women like that," I admitted.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Click
Monday, June 21, 2010
R.I.P.
In an interview in London I was once asked what was the best cultural event I'd ever been to. I answered that I'd seen Shakespeare in Stratford; von Stroheim in Edinburgh; opera, dance and all sorts of theatre but the single best cultural event I'd ever been to was a Frank Sidebottom gig in a working men's club in Timperley. The audience were all grown-ups with all the cares of the world about their shoulders but for a couple of glorious hours they were allowed out on licence and were eight years old again, laughing and singing and joyful in their tomfoolery.
This is by way of an entirely inadequate thank-you.
Godspeed, Chris.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
From the observatory
My small niece has an unerring sense of logic. She is also cursed with her uncle's gift of commentary.
She had popped in at my parents' house, as is her wont, to cadge rather a lot of toast off my dad. And a bit of cheese please. And some more toast.
"You know how my dad supports Man City..." she said, "well, I support them, too. But I shouldn't really, should I? When I came out of my mummy's tummy I was in Middlesborough, so I should support Middlesborough, shouldn't I?"
To his credit, my father reassured her that it wasn't compulsory. The child is of mixed parentage - Lancashire and Yorkshire. It's quite funny listening to her talk as she's got her mother's Middlesborough quirks like "cayek" for "cake," but all with our southern Mancunian accent.
A little later, her mother wanted to know why she hadn't eaten her dinner. My dad owned up and got a rollicking for it. As the fur subsided my niece turned to him and said:
"Don't take any notice. Parents get like that when they're old. They go all yaddadadayaddayadda. They can't help it."
Giving the anti-histamines a workout
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Friendship
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Domestic
- I shall tell people that the living room window is in that state so that the baby goldfinches don't injure themselves by flying into it.
- I have glared at that spider's web. Twice.
- I have applied Febreeze to the dust on the living room floor. According to the advert on the telly my living room shall now become awash with teenage girls, all giggly and excited. It has to be admitted: the only way I could even manage the energy for so much as a conversation with a roomful of teenage girls would be for me and they both to be under the influence of chloroform.
- Some damned fool thought it would be a good idea to wash the quilt in the bath. Seeing as how this is a single male household there's not a lot of point in having a row about it. It's a hike and a half to the nearest laundrette and there's no buses that way on a Sunday so it's arguably the only way to get it done. Most of the procedure involves beating the quilt with a stick until it stops moving. I did consider steam-cleaning it but then I remember that last time I ended up having to get a new shower curtain rail.
- I may do the washing up.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Don't mention the Armada...
"You can come with us," she tells my mum."No, I can't," explains my mum, "I don't have a passport any more.""You don't need a passport. We're going to English Spain, not Spanish Spain."