Thank merciful god, the end of this horrible week (on a par with the last two, really) is nearly over! September is fast disappearing down the plughole of the Bathtub of time (not that baths are on my mind at the moment or anything), and yet there are still two weeks till payday. And I am broke, I can feel it in me water. Well, in me wallet. When I was in the Mr Ben shop yesterday, everything looked good to buy. Rope! Rope would be useful! Tupperwares in the Wrong size! Now you know they might be the right size for something! No, really, eyes on the ground, woman!
… is that a hand-axe?
I have given in to the impulse, and blown all my money on homebrew supplies. Mail order ones, which are slightly pricier than the local shop* although I did, er, qualify for free delivery. And nobody is getting to know how much you have to spend to do that, heavens, no. And it’s better than going all that way and finding out they don’t have something Important. So, soon, I will be able to mix up vast vats of rosehips, and peapods, and blackberries, and raspberries, and plums (if I bulk em out with some cheap-arsed plums) and play at Wine-makers all winter! Ooh, it’ll be like being a kid all over again (except this time, touchwood, I won’t be making ‘poison’). And I has a coupla store-kits for beer, why not – the big vat might as well get busy too, it takes up just as much space empty or full! At thirty pence a pint, I will beat the credit crunch yet!
*(A ten mile round trip on foot and the underground as well, ooh, imagine that at rush hour with six months’ supplies – but it’s the local-est shop).
So I reckon, for under a tenner a month, I can be happy as larry till spring. I could totally do over the spare room into a Brewery! (Other people’s requirements of the space therein permitting).
On the subject of cottage industries, I brought in muffins for my colleagues today again. There is tricky Politics involved in the muffins, heaven knows. Now that my Colleague I Suspect Is Up To Something is sharing a room with Eyes, if I give her one*, I have to give her cellmate one*. And in truth, her cellmate seems very nice*. Then I will have to give one to each of the other lassies in Eyes*, and I will spend the rest of my life doing nothing but making and giving out muffins. Although, I still have spare time, for have I managed to contact any of these people about this course? Have I buggery.
Mind you, I am still working out where the water supplies in this place are, and have not yet mastered this phone. I am one of the few, those fortunate few, with voicemail, for instance. And no sodding PIN number to access it, so already I look absolutely bloody useless. (I wonder if the clinic team has one? They didn’t for over a year.) Anyway, not wanting to get caught up in a political faux pas, I gave the excess muffins to the guy from records to take away.
(*The same, oo-er! noise will do for all these asterisks).
So he duly turned up, his eyes popped nearly out of his head, and he exclaimed, Wow [grandmother] what amazing triceps you have!
Cheers, I said uncomfortably, for this is the second time this week someone’s said that. I went home and had a look in the mirror after the first one and… yeah. This is not the frame of someone who stomps forty miles a week with a heavy rucksack, digs for hours on end and goes fighting! This is the frame of some consumptive waif, who would snap like a twig if she tried any of that shit. I need (slightly) more Bulk!
Oh you are Rocking the skinny and underfed look! your man continued, confirming my worst suspicions. I love that look!
Note to self: acquire layer of subcutaneous fat, or you will be dead by spring.
How anyone in the western hemisphere can fail to consume enough calories…
I went home via the shops, still in the grip of Consumer Frenzy. Spare tupperwares, bulk discount on sugar, lemons to put the zest in the wine… I have it all! And now, some housework.
My god, that did not take long at all! Good. Housework, like bailing out a boat, is necessary but not terribly satisfying.
So I spent a nice, chilled evening tidying out the freezers, weighing the produce and labelling it all. Ah hell, Cake had told me she spent last weekend playing with vacuum packs and hoovering all the air out and it was the most fun ever; if she can do it, so can I. Just, I am sure this is not the sort of cheap’n’guilty pleasure that songs are written about.
And I had an early night. Dammit, I am worn out! And sleep is Free!