My chum and I are having chicken tonight. The good news is that the gas delivery occurred this morning and so one is back using the oven. The even better news is that we’re like a couple of girl guides back to cooking on the camp fire again. We bunged some spuds to bake in the log burner tonight; the taste shot me back to November 5th 1958 at warp-factor 9. As the Buddhists say, good comes from bad.
It’s been that kind of day in general, really. The was some serious bad shit at around 6 am, but that too teaches one to be on one’s guard. It also forced me to ask some further questions of those in a position to know. This too will prove to be good for the soul…and The Slog. Stay tuned.
So off we took ourselves to a favourite lakeside walk of mine after I’d blogged about some jolly hockeysticks, and although somewhat soggy, it was a 90-minute bliss of larking about, listening to nature, watching storks, and wondering about myriad things that often get lost in the Tsunami of urgency that is contemporary “life”.
There followed some wine, pate, cheese, bread, humous and debate over lunch. The general outcome of this mélange was the conclusion that slobs are produced by women, and princesses by men.
There is a certain absolute truth to that seemingly random suffix to lunch. Women constantly moan about male slobs…almost all of whom were sculpted by their mothers. And men go on about buy-me-get-me women, almost all of whom were the result of an overly proud father.
Later we cooked, ate and then watched the evening news stations talking in depth about the situation in the Ukraine, but without ever scratching the surface. Watching the TV news these days is a bit like listening to some child abuse idiot attending a show trial: you just know it’s got absolutely zero to do with anything real.
Over the last four days we have watched exactly nineteen minutes of television. Every one of them was wasted.
The Slog 