God, I'm dying. And Bambi is quite patently a poisoner. I spent all last night sleeping fitfully in between dreams about her putting arsenic into Scotch Eggs, using a mediaeval version of a syringe.
I'm still in a really bad mood when Max wakes up.
"That bloody Bambi girl of yours is trying to kill me," I say. "She was *Catherine de' Medici in a previous life. I know, because I saw it in my dreams. Her Italian's a bit dodgy, though. She needs to work on that."
Max sighs, and pulls the covers back over his head.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Mol?" he mumbles. "Dreams aren't actually real, you know."
"Well, this one seemed pretty convincing to me," I say. "Seeing as I really have been throwing up. That hasn't been in my imagination."
"No," says Max. "More's the pity. You finished with that bucket yet? And Bambi's not my girl. Sod it - Gemma isn't."
He puts the pillow over his head, on top of the quilt, just in case I haven't already got the message.
"Now I am going back to sleep," he says. "In the probably futile hope that you'll be in touch with reality when I next wake up."
There's no need to be rude about it, is there? He's just being defensive, because it was his so-called colleague who poisoned me. I need to pay more attention to that girl. Maybe Ellen's not Max's love-interest after all.
There's no doubting what Dad's is, as becomes only too apparent when I finally stagger downstairs and throw myself on to the sofa to recover from the effort.
I've just turned the TV over to watch BBC News 24 to follow what's happening about the explosion at the nuclear reactor in Fukushima, when Dad comes hurtling in to the room at speed. You'd never think he'd had a heart bypass less than a month ago. I look miles more unhealthy than him.
"Quick," he says, grabbing the remote control. "I'm missing the match."
Before I can object, he changes channel and sits down, hard. On my feet.
"Gah," he says, then stands up again, pushes my legs off the sofa, and settles back down with a sigh of relief.
"You're looking better, Molly," he says, without taking his eyes off the screen.
"Would it make any difference if I wasn't?" I say, but Dad just grunts in reply.
Honestly, talk about bad manners. I'm bloody glad they aren't genetic.
"Would it, though, Dad?" I say. "Matter, I mean?"
I stare at the side of his head, willing him to answer this time. God knows if it's working but it brings my headache back, big-time. I don't give up, though. My methods were honed by Penelope Leach, you know.
After what feels like hours, Dad shifts in his seat, as if it's hot. Ha! Now it's working. You can teach an old dog new tricks, and I am the natural heir to *Barbara Woodhouse. Just call me the Northwick Dad Whisperer.
"Yes, Dad?" I say, to encourage him.
"For God's sake, Ref!" he says. "Foul! What the hell are you playing at, man?"
Some people never learn, do they? Though I'm not sure whether that applies to me or Dad. No wonder I have trouble with reality. I can't say I like it one little bit.
*Catherine de' Medici - accused of poisoning, probably denied it. Remind you of anyone?
*Barbara Woodhouse - see here if you've never heard of her. Or heard her, in fact.
Showing posts with label Scotch Egg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scotch Egg. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
A Case Of The Friday Wobbles, And A Great Idea To Help Small Businesses Comes To Nothing.
Ouf, I definitely shouldn't have eaten the Scotch egg that Max gave me because he was too riddled with guilt to eat it himself. I feel very odd indeed.
Mind you, I always feel a bit wobbly on Fridays - who wouldn't, with The Boss back from Westminster and constituency surgery to look forward to? God knows what that combination does to my blood pressure, but it can't be good.
It seems pathetic to be moaning about anything to do with life in Northwick in the light of the terrible events in Japan last night, though, doesn't it?
"We need to get our senses of proportion back," I say to Greg this morning, while we're walking into work - but he obviously isn't paying any attention to me. He's far too busy listening to the raised voices that are coming from our office.
"Have a nice time on Wednesday night, did you, Andrew?" says Vicky, in that sort of voice. (Her use of Andy seems to have bitten the dust.)
Greg puts his finger to his lips, and pulls me behind the coat-rack in the corridor. We stand very still and wait for what comes next.
"Um, no," says Andrew. "I don't know what you mean. I went to that do at the embassy, which was okay but a bit dull, so I left at 10:30pm and went back to the flat."
"So why didn't you answer either of your phones?" says Vicky. "I called you every half hour - almost all night."
I think this must have been a rhetorical question as, before The Boss can respond, Vicky comes hurtling out into the corridor, shouts, "Sod you!" and slams the door shut behind her. Then she grabs her coat and glares at Greg and me.
"Heard enough, you two?" she says.
"Yes, thanks," says Greg. "Safe to go in there now, is it?"
Vicky shrugs and walks off towards the stairwell, so Greg counts to fifty and then opens the door. Andrew's sitting at my desk, reading the local paper and chewing like mad. He tries to hide Greg's last bag of Haribos, but doesn't quite manage it in time.
"Morning, guys," he says, as if nothing at all has happened. "Looking forward to today? Lots more lovely constituents who hate the Coalition to sympathise with - can't be bad."
Honestly, only an MP would look forward to surgeries. Probably because they can get through the vast majority of the damned things purely by looking sympathetic and saying, "Ah," a lot. While muppets like me try to note down the garbled details of complicated cases, knowing that we're going to be the ones who have to do the follow-up work.
This scenario is a pretty accurate summary of what happens when we start seeing today's constituents straight after lunch. I show each person in, one at a time, while Andrew makes expansive gestures of welcome from the comfort of his chair. His legs are splayed and his tie askew, and I'm pretty sure there's a gravy stain on the bottom of it. No wonder he never makes GQ's Best-Dressed Man in Britain list.
Once the constituent is settled and starts to speak, The Boss then gives a virtuoso demonstration of sympathetic nodding - while I am left to frantically scribble down details of incomprehensible tax credit awards and overpayment demands; care home charges and a traveller family who apparently spend all their time re-spraying cars in the garden of their council house. It's a laugh a minute in this job.
Today, there's only one constituent in whom Andrew seems to take a genuine interest, and that's Jim Dixon - who is a self-employed carpet fitter working for most major retailers in the area. His business is going under, and he's just beginning to explain why, when Andrew jumps to a conclusion, as per bloody usual. That it's all the fault of the banks.
After listening to The Boss pontificating for what feels like hours about Stephen Hester's bonus and the banks' moral obligation to lend to small businesses, even the mild-mannered Jim looks as if he is going to explode. My head feels as if it already has.
"Andrew," I say. "Why don't you just let Mr Dixon tell us what his actual problem is?"
This earns me a grateful look from Jim, who goes on to describe the behaviour of the retailers who use his services. They're taking longer and longer to pay his invoices, and causing him major cash-flow problems in the process.
"How long are they making you wait?" asks Andrew, who has finally grasped what this is about. Or, at least, I hope he has.
"Our agreement is that payment is due within thirty days of the date of the invoice," says Jim. "And all the shops used to comply with that, at least most of the time. Until this last year. Then one of them wrote to me telling me that they weren't going to pay for ninety days, like it or not - and then all the others started pushing it as far as they could, as well. I've got bills that are still unpaid after nine or ten months."
"Bloody hell," says The Boss. Who may now be re-thinking his negative assessment of IPSA's turnaround of expenses payments. "I can see that would be problematic, to put it mildly."
"It is," says Jim. "Seeing as I still have to pay for everything up front. I can't exactly tell the filling station I'll pay for my petrol when my clients have paid me, can I? Or buy my family's food on tick?"
"No," says Andrew. "I suppose you can't. Bloody outrageous, that's what that is."
He sits and scratches his head for a moment, while looking optimistically at me. I'm starting to feel a bit sick - probably from that damned egg - so I just look straight back at him and concentrate on trying not to burp.
"We did something about this, though, didn't we, Molly?" says The Boss. "When we were in power, I mean."
"Well, sort-of," I say. "We legislated to allow small business people to apply charges for late payment if their bills weren't paid on time."
You'd swear that this had been Andrew's own idea, he looks so pleased to be reminded of it.
"Well, there you are, then, Jim," he says. "Problem solved. By your good old Labour government. Just slap a few charges on these bloody retailers and they'll soon -"
"Pay up, then tell me to bugger off and use someone else in future," says Jim. Which, not for the first time, seems to leave The Boss with nothing of any use to add to the debate. Or not before I have to excuse myself and head for the loo, anyway.
I have to repeat that particular journey so often over the course of the rest of the afternoon that eventually, Greg barges in to the Ladies' toilet to tell me that I might as well go home, for all the use I'm being. So now I have no idea if Andrew found a solution to Jim's problem, or not. The latter seems infinitely more likely than the former, based on past experience.
I suppose I'll find out on Monday morning, when I'll have to rely on Andrew's own notes to carry out whatever he suggested to Jim we would do - which is bound to be a total disaster, whatever it is. Which is a pretty good description of how I've spent my evening, too: on about two hundred more trips to the loo. (This poetry thing is awfully contagious.)
"You still throwing up, then, Mol?" says Max, at about 8:00pm, when he tries to open the bathroom door and finds it locked.
"Yes," I say. "Thanks to you, and that bloody Scotch egg of yours. Go away and leave me alone."
"I'd go to bed, if I were you," he says. "And take a bucket with you, too."
Huh. So it seems The Boss won't be the only one to have had an early night this week. Though I bet his was more fun than mine.
Mind you, I always feel a bit wobbly on Fridays - who wouldn't, with The Boss back from Westminster and constituency surgery to look forward to? God knows what that combination does to my blood pressure, but it can't be good.
It seems pathetic to be moaning about anything to do with life in Northwick in the light of the terrible events in Japan last night, though, doesn't it?
"We need to get our senses of proportion back," I say to Greg this morning, while we're walking into work - but he obviously isn't paying any attention to me. He's far too busy listening to the raised voices that are coming from our office.
"Have a nice time on Wednesday night, did you, Andrew?" says Vicky, in that sort of voice. (Her use of Andy seems to have bitten the dust.)
Greg puts his finger to his lips, and pulls me behind the coat-rack in the corridor. We stand very still and wait for what comes next.
"Um, no," says Andrew. "I don't know what you mean. I went to that do at the embassy, which was okay but a bit dull, so I left at 10:30pm and went back to the flat."
"So why didn't you answer either of your phones?" says Vicky. "I called you every half hour - almost all night."
I think this must have been a rhetorical question as, before The Boss can respond, Vicky comes hurtling out into the corridor, shouts, "Sod you!" and slams the door shut behind her. Then she grabs her coat and glares at Greg and me.
"Heard enough, you two?" she says.
"Yes, thanks," says Greg. "Safe to go in there now, is it?"
Vicky shrugs and walks off towards the stairwell, so Greg counts to fifty and then opens the door. Andrew's sitting at my desk, reading the local paper and chewing like mad. He tries to hide Greg's last bag of Haribos, but doesn't quite manage it in time.
"Morning, guys," he says, as if nothing at all has happened. "Looking forward to today? Lots more lovely constituents who hate the Coalition to sympathise with - can't be bad."
Honestly, only an MP would look forward to surgeries. Probably because they can get through the vast majority of the damned things purely by looking sympathetic and saying, "Ah," a lot. While muppets like me try to note down the garbled details of complicated cases, knowing that we're going to be the ones who have to do the follow-up work.
This scenario is a pretty accurate summary of what happens when we start seeing today's constituents straight after lunch. I show each person in, one at a time, while Andrew makes expansive gestures of welcome from the comfort of his chair. His legs are splayed and his tie askew, and I'm pretty sure there's a gravy stain on the bottom of it. No wonder he never makes GQ's Best-Dressed Man in Britain list.
Once the constituent is settled and starts to speak, The Boss then gives a virtuoso demonstration of sympathetic nodding - while I am left to frantically scribble down details of incomprehensible tax credit awards and overpayment demands; care home charges and a traveller family who apparently spend all their time re-spraying cars in the garden of their council house. It's a laugh a minute in this job.
Today, there's only one constituent in whom Andrew seems to take a genuine interest, and that's Jim Dixon - who is a self-employed carpet fitter working for most major retailers in the area. His business is going under, and he's just beginning to explain why, when Andrew jumps to a conclusion, as per bloody usual. That it's all the fault of the banks.
After listening to The Boss pontificating for what feels like hours about Stephen Hester's bonus and the banks' moral obligation to lend to small businesses, even the mild-mannered Jim looks as if he is going to explode. My head feels as if it already has.
"Andrew," I say. "Why don't you just let Mr Dixon tell us what his actual problem is?"
This earns me a grateful look from Jim, who goes on to describe the behaviour of the retailers who use his services. They're taking longer and longer to pay his invoices, and causing him major cash-flow problems in the process.
"How long are they making you wait?" asks Andrew, who has finally grasped what this is about. Or, at least, I hope he has.
"Our agreement is that payment is due within thirty days of the date of the invoice," says Jim. "And all the shops used to comply with that, at least most of the time. Until this last year. Then one of them wrote to me telling me that they weren't going to pay for ninety days, like it or not - and then all the others started pushing it as far as they could, as well. I've got bills that are still unpaid after nine or ten months."
"Bloody hell," says The Boss. Who may now be re-thinking his negative assessment of IPSA's turnaround of expenses payments. "I can see that would be problematic, to put it mildly."
"It is," says Jim. "Seeing as I still have to pay for everything up front. I can't exactly tell the filling station I'll pay for my petrol when my clients have paid me, can I? Or buy my family's food on tick?"
"No," says Andrew. "I suppose you can't. Bloody outrageous, that's what that is."
He sits and scratches his head for a moment, while looking optimistically at me. I'm starting to feel a bit sick - probably from that damned egg - so I just look straight back at him and concentrate on trying not to burp.
"We did something about this, though, didn't we, Molly?" says The Boss. "When we were in power, I mean."
"Well, sort-of," I say. "We legislated to allow small business people to apply charges for late payment if their bills weren't paid on time."
You'd swear that this had been Andrew's own idea, he looks so pleased to be reminded of it.
"Well, there you are, then, Jim," he says. "Problem solved. By your good old Labour government. Just slap a few charges on these bloody retailers and they'll soon -"
"Pay up, then tell me to bugger off and use someone else in future," says Jim. Which, not for the first time, seems to leave The Boss with nothing of any use to add to the debate. Or not before I have to excuse myself and head for the loo, anyway.
I have to repeat that particular journey so often over the course of the rest of the afternoon that eventually, Greg barges in to the Ladies' toilet to tell me that I might as well go home, for all the use I'm being. So now I have no idea if Andrew found a solution to Jim's problem, or not. The latter seems infinitely more likely than the former, based on past experience.
I suppose I'll find out on Monday morning, when I'll have to rely on Andrew's own notes to carry out whatever he suggested to Jim we would do - which is bound to be a total disaster, whatever it is. Which is a pretty good description of how I've spent my evening, too: on about two hundred more trips to the loo. (This poetry thing is awfully contagious.)
"You still throwing up, then, Mol?" says Max, at about 8:00pm, when he tries to open the bathroom door and finds it locked.
"Yes," I say. "Thanks to you, and that bloody Scotch egg of yours. Go away and leave me alone."
"I'd go to bed, if I were you," he says. "And take a bucket with you, too."
Huh. So it seems The Boss won't be the only one to have had an early night this week. Though I bet his was more fun than mine.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Seduction by Foodyism Gets Out Of Hand, Plus The Dangers Of Leaning On Revolving Objects.
God, M&S have got a lot to answer for. And I've gone right off food.
It all starts when Max has to leave early for work this morning, and tells me he hasn't had time to make any sandwiches.
"That's okay," I say. "You can buy yours, and I'll make my own. I can easily slap a bit of *Dairylea between two slices of bread."
Max looks appalled by my lack of epicurean standards - yet again - but doesn't actually say anything in response. He just pats me several times on the shoulder. Rather too hard, as if I was a particularly blokey mate of his but, by the time I've thought of a suitably ironic comment, he's already left the house.
Honestly, romance is fast becoming something I can only recall in dreams. And then it's always Max who takes the role of Romeo. Johnny never shows up while I'm asleep and, even when I'm awake, I do wish he wouldn't insist on saying, "Keep up, woman" during virtual sex. It's hardly up there with *Shakespeare's Sonnets, is it?
It's time to do something about the emotional desert I'm bogged down in. (And yes, I do know that's an oxymoron. Apart from the first three letters, the word pretty much sums up how I feel, after what happens next.)
I decide that Max and I need to spend more quality time together - away from Josh and, most particularly, Dad - so I walk down to his shop to find out if he's free for lunch. I don't phone first, as it'll be a nice surprise. And there you have my first mistake.
There's no sign of Max on the ground floor, so I tiptoe up the stairs leading to the first, where his desk is situated in a far corner of the shop. I've forgotten to bring my distance glasses with me, so I can't quite see what's going on, but he appears to be busy with a customer. Maybe he's actually going to make a sale, and there'll be some commission at the end of the month!
It's best not to interrupt him when he's working, though - so I wander around a display of furniture at the other side of the room until I figure enough time to sell anything has elapsed. Then I start to walk towards his desk.
Oh, shit, shit, shit. That wasn't a customer. It was Bambi. Or is Bambi, to be more accurate - sitting perched on Max's desk and talking nineteen to the dozen. I'd love to know what she's talking about. Max looks positively rapt.
There's so much stock in the shop, that there's probably enough cover to allow me to make it almost as far as Max's desk without being spotted, if I'm very careful. I zig-zag my way across the floor, bending double while out in the open, and pausing behind various sofas and sideboards to recce the situation along the way.
Thank goodness for all the stalking practice I've had during Greg's DIY CRB Checks, that's all I can say. At least I do a better job than Special Forces did in Libya. William Hague will probably phone me next time he needs a hand.
I'm really close to my target by now, but I still can't hear what Bambi's saying. I can see the way she's crossing and uncrossing her legs all too well, though - and that annoying Princess Di thing of giving coy little glances from under her fringe.
There's nothing for it but to try to reach the rotating display stand directly opposite Max's desk. It's a good job I'm small enough to hide behind it, though I'm a bit worried about the CCTV camera overhead. Oh, well - needs must. And I'm used to denying the screamingly obvious, if it comes to that. I do work for an MP, after all.
My sang-froid seems to be wearing off a bit by the time I'm finally in position, though, and my heart's making such a racket that all I can hear is a worryingly-fast boom-boom noise, interspersed with that sounds like, "brownie" and "roast."
So I wait for my pulse to slow down, while my legs start to shake a bit as a result of standing stock-still. My ears are probably shaking too, from the effort of straining so hard to hear.
"And look at this, Max," says Bambi. "It's so-o-o good, you are going to want more."
What is the woman talking about? And what exactly is she offering Max? I try my best to work out what's going on, but this damned stand is so tall that I can't see over it, and I can't see through it, either. Not unless I can swivel it around a bit - about a quarter of a turn. It should only take a little push.
Oops. Oo-ops. Oh, bugger it.
"Molly," says Max. "What the hell are you doing down there?"
He helps me up, gathers the brochures that have fallen off the still-spinning stand, and then turns to Bambi, who is staring at me as if I am quite mad. Some people have no sense of when to leave the scene of an accident.
"Here you are, Max," she says, passing him a brown paper bag. "As I was trying to tell you - it's an organic Scotch Egg. With pepper, chilli and paprika. You could even say that it's orgasmic - so I know that you'll enjoy it."
Is that a wink, or do annoying women just have a tendency to twitch while using foodstuffs as tools for seduction? Dervla Bloody Kirwan has no idea what she started.
*Dairylea - viscous yellow cheesy spread, perfect for really lazy people like me, and for whom food is merely fuel.
*Shakespeare's Sonnets - rather better than the stuff Greg and I were forced to listen to at last week's poetry reading. And sadly absent from my daily life.
It all starts when Max has to leave early for work this morning, and tells me he hasn't had time to make any sandwiches.
"That's okay," I say. "You can buy yours, and I'll make my own. I can easily slap a bit of *Dairylea between two slices of bread."
Max looks appalled by my lack of epicurean standards - yet again - but doesn't actually say anything in response. He just pats me several times on the shoulder. Rather too hard, as if I was a particularly blokey mate of his but, by the time I've thought of a suitably ironic comment, he's already left the house.
Honestly, romance is fast becoming something I can only recall in dreams. And then it's always Max who takes the role of Romeo. Johnny never shows up while I'm asleep and, even when I'm awake, I do wish he wouldn't insist on saying, "Keep up, woman" during virtual sex. It's hardly up there with *Shakespeare's Sonnets, is it?
It's time to do something about the emotional desert I'm bogged down in. (And yes, I do know that's an oxymoron. Apart from the first three letters, the word pretty much sums up how I feel, after what happens next.)
I decide that Max and I need to spend more quality time together - away from Josh and, most particularly, Dad - so I walk down to his shop to find out if he's free for lunch. I don't phone first, as it'll be a nice surprise. And there you have my first mistake.
There's no sign of Max on the ground floor, so I tiptoe up the stairs leading to the first, where his desk is situated in a far corner of the shop. I've forgotten to bring my distance glasses with me, so I can't quite see what's going on, but he appears to be busy with a customer. Maybe he's actually going to make a sale, and there'll be some commission at the end of the month!
It's best not to interrupt him when he's working, though - so I wander around a display of furniture at the other side of the room until I figure enough time to sell anything has elapsed. Then I start to walk towards his desk.
Oh, shit, shit, shit. That wasn't a customer. It was Bambi. Or is Bambi, to be more accurate - sitting perched on Max's desk and talking nineteen to the dozen. I'd love to know what she's talking about. Max looks positively rapt.
There's so much stock in the shop, that there's probably enough cover to allow me to make it almost as far as Max's desk without being spotted, if I'm very careful. I zig-zag my way across the floor, bending double while out in the open, and pausing behind various sofas and sideboards to recce the situation along the way.
Thank goodness for all the stalking practice I've had during Greg's DIY CRB Checks, that's all I can say. At least I do a better job than Special Forces did in Libya. William Hague will probably phone me next time he needs a hand.
I'm really close to my target by now, but I still can't hear what Bambi's saying. I can see the way she's crossing and uncrossing her legs all too well, though - and that annoying Princess Di thing of giving coy little glances from under her fringe.
There's nothing for it but to try to reach the rotating display stand directly opposite Max's desk. It's a good job I'm small enough to hide behind it, though I'm a bit worried about the CCTV camera overhead. Oh, well - needs must. And I'm used to denying the screamingly obvious, if it comes to that. I do work for an MP, after all.
My sang-froid seems to be wearing off a bit by the time I'm finally in position, though, and my heart's making such a racket that all I can hear is a worryingly-fast boom-boom noise, interspersed with that sounds like, "brownie" and "roast."
So I wait for my pulse to slow down, while my legs start to shake a bit as a result of standing stock-still. My ears are probably shaking too, from the effort of straining so hard to hear.
"And look at this, Max," says Bambi. "It's so-o-o good, you are going to want more."
What is the woman talking about? And what exactly is she offering Max? I try my best to work out what's going on, but this damned stand is so tall that I can't see over it, and I can't see through it, either. Not unless I can swivel it around a bit - about a quarter of a turn. It should only take a little push.
Oops. Oo-ops. Oh, bugger it.
He helps me up, gathers the brochures that have fallen off the still-spinning stand, and then turns to Bambi, who is staring at me as if I am quite mad. Some people have no sense of when to leave the scene of an accident.
"Here you are, Max," she says, passing him a brown paper bag. "As I was trying to tell you - it's an organic Scotch Egg. With pepper, chilli and paprika. You could even say that it's orgasmic - so I know that you'll enjoy it."
Is that a wink, or do annoying women just have a tendency to twitch while using foodstuffs as tools for seduction? Dervla Bloody Kirwan has no idea what she started.
*Dairylea - viscous yellow cheesy spread, perfect for really lazy people like me, and for whom food is merely fuel.
*Shakespeare's Sonnets - rather better than the stuff Greg and I were forced to listen to at last week's poetry reading. And sadly absent from my daily life.
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