So, there we were getting ready for the usual Friday night drinkathon at our local 17th century inn. It’s a ritual; it’s what us older folks get up to on a Friday evening because it doesn’t take much thought, it’s a three minute walk from home, (well three minutes there and fifteen back what with all that weaving from one side of the road to the other), and there are quite a few fences to cling to for support and to guide us back home after partaking of a sherry or two of an evening.
Now, on one or two occasions we have been known to drink enough between us to embalm the residents of a small care home whilst also living up to the term ‘blind drunk’. These are not times to be proud of, I can tell you. I hang my head in shame at some of our antics as we should know better at our age; frolics such as the time himself, my husband, thought it would be a right old laugh if he raced me back home in the pub wheelbarrow only for it to overturn and to tip me out at the bus stop where two of the village’s staunchly po faced residents tut tutted down their snooty noses at us. Or the time we tried to cycle back after stopping off for a ‘quick one’ and after several ‘quick one’s’, on the way home, careered out of control into a hedge. Luckily my ankles were hanging out so himself could get a good grip to heave me out of there. Or the other time I was getting home fine until someone stepped on my fingers....... The list goes on dear people, but I am too ashamed to divulge any more of our antics. But at other times, we have been fortunate enough to have had the foresight to stop for a drink after walking the dogs, whereupon, their sobriety has meant two superb guides with excellent homing instincts to get us back to the old homestead in one piece and all for the price of some water and a packet of pork scratchings.
So there we are, last night being Friday, we followed our usual ritual of showering, me buggering about with the menopausal hair until it looked less ‘mad old lady’, himself taking ages combing his hair which baffles the poop out of me as he doesn’t have any, and both of us finally donning our drinking boots for our skip, hop and a jump up the pub. Sure enough it was a typical ‘early doors’ selection of Chickenwing Pete, Bob the Belcher, Rudolph the red nosed barman and Maltese Mick who isn’t Maltese and isn’t called Mick......don't ask. Soon we were joined by our good neighbours and drinking buddies who pop in for a snifter or two on the way home to their country pile for the weekend; a jolly nice pair of good old eggs, and no mistake.
Around 0900pm himself is usually suffering from the munchies, i.e., starving hungry ravenous and could eat uncooked road-kill and expects loving wife and partner, whilst being fourteen sheets to the wind, to dish up a three course meal of Michelin star standards. Now, given that I cook from scratch this is quite a feat to achieve when both eyes are looking out of one socket and an accomplishment that has been known in the past to result in me almost losing one or more fingers whilst julienning his fecking carrots. Himself can be heard belly laughing all the way from the den as he is being mightily entertained by such gems as ‘Have I got news for you?’, whilst Moi lacerates my hands to hell and back whilst clinging to a work surface to stay upright. Oh how I love those evenings.......
........Not....So enough was enough and after one particularly harrowing cooking session and a near visit to casualty I left him in no doubt that Friday night munchathons were his department from now on. Suffice to say himself can cremate food and still say that it is underdone. Here is a man who is supremely talented in so many areas that he puts mere mortals to shame but ask him to cook a sausage and it could be used as a lethal weapon as it is as hard as anything similar fashioned out of steel. Realising that he could quite likely burn the house down when bladdered and attempting to cremate anything within reach, we reached a compromise. I cooked in bulk and froze his Friday night meals and all he had to do was learn how to drive the oven and the microwave.
So, having set the scene further let me continue last nights tale.........
At around himself’s usual ‘I could eat a scabby dog’ time, attempts to put one foot in front of the other and walk in a straightish line were made and we entered our humble abode without head injuries and the need for a stomach pump. Accustomed as he is now, he raided the freezer, unbeknown to me whacked on the oven at the highest temperature possible and disappeared to the study to surf the net for while. I on the other hand visited a few blogs to catch up on my favourite reads and before long, could smell burning. Given that we were rather shit faced, himself had forgotten to set the timer and the burning smell was an indicator that full scale cremation of his dinner was in full flight. Dashing to the cooker, I opened the oven door whereupon a volcanically hot wave of heat whooshed over my face, buggered up my fringe, melted my eyebrows and burnt the shit out of my eyelashes. Oh and as an added bonus my new fecking lenses are now welded to my eyeballs. Such a good look, first degree burns. Jamie Oliver eat yer heart out, you’ve got nothing on himself here when it comes to cooking the food and his wife all in one go. Talk about living the dream eh?
Needless to say, the trainee Arsonist is completely humble today and can’t do enough for me but hell will freeze over before I let him back in that kitchen unsupervised........ The upside is that I now look like that gorgeous bit of stuff Hortense - see picture on the sidebar if you need a look. I’m off to the hozzie to get my lenses surgically removed.
"P.S. As ‘Herself' can’t see this it’s ‘Himself’ leaving a message saying Vote for Mob, Vote for MoB.....Do you think she might lift the death threat now? Please vote for her, it'll be over soon, midnight on the 1st of June, I promise and the more votes she gets the more likely she is to let me eat again....pleaaaaase, I'm wasting away....."
"Eejit, didn't I tell you to say Vote for me 'cause I can't see, Vote for me 'cause I can't see?. How the hell am I supposed to get the sympathy vote now, eh? So, err, what takeaway are we ordering tonight then?"