On a Sunday we came to worship at our altar and throw ourselves upon the mercy of our God. From all corners of the enclave we came, stumbling and broken, the grey faced and shattered remnants of humanity, seeking only an end to our pain and distress, hoping for love and mercy in the sweet embrace of Our Lard.
The night before, the enclave had rung with revelry and joy. Many parties had abounded; I, of course being at the most fabulous, most bunted, most dazzlingly fairy lit and most gin soaked party of all.
It was splendid and it was blissful and I had an awful lot of gin and I kept telling the taxi to come back later, until he said it was 2 am and he wasn't coming back again- if I didn't get in the taxi, I could walk home. As that was a trek of many miles*, I meekly put down my ginny gin gin and concurred, sad though I was to leave such a very wondrous party, when there was still so much gin to be drunk. A measure of the party's glory was that even the DC consented to dance, and at no point attempted to 'shush' me or complain that I was being 'a bit much'.
Falling in the door, to the now traditional judgemental looks and tutting from Saffy, I made some toast and lurched to bed, while the DC passed out on the sofa. At some point in what remained of the night, he must've made the long stumble through to the bedroom, because he was there the next morning, when I woke up face down in a plate of cold toast.
At first, I felt all right, once I had established I had not come down with a hideous skin condition, I was just covered in toast; and I was not blind, I had just gone to bed wearing too much mascara which had fused into a solid lump (possibly mingling with the butter) and glued my eyes shut and ruined the pillowcase.
Soon though, the pain began. A niggling pain at first, but bad enough it quickly seemed that sobering up was a bad idea. In one of those rare moments of telepathy, that makes you realise why you married someone, we squinted owlishly at each other and said as one "Pub?"
And thus we tottered, all the long way to Pubfordshire**, where we found ourselves amongst our own kind. The other sorry flotsam and jetsam washed up at the bar in the wake of all the other parties.
First to arrive had been Salacious Steve The Local Lothario, ostensibly seeking missing possessions from the night before, he had decided it would 'rude' not to stay for a pint.
Others had followed where he led, so by the time we arrived, there was quite a support group propping up the bar. Truly, misery loves company, and I did feel a tiny bit smug that despite the prodigious quantities of gin I had shifted the night before, at least I had not had to slink up to the pub in the hope of finding someone who could tell me what the fuck I did last night, and who I needed to apologise to. Not this time, anyway.
So ashen faced and whimpering was the crowd huddled in front of her, that the Angel behind the bar took pity on us all, and requisitioned bowls of healing chips for us from the kitchen. Salacious Steve, perhaps realising he had somewhat betrayed his reputation by spending half an hour having a very sweet conversation with me about his children, tried to man up by requesting a burger. Sadly, said burger did not seem to agree with him, as he took one bite and vanished to the loos for some time, before returning paler than ever and switching from beer to vodka and coke, and I felt even smugger, that not only did I not have black out shame, but I also hadn't puked. I felt almost like a proper grown up.
By now though, the cloud was lifting and we were experiencing the sort of camaraderie that only those who have come through the darkest of adversities together can feel. Other survivors of that Saturday night were starting to trickle in, but we, we hardcore, who had together come through the sweats, the shakes, the heaves, the shame, by the medium of irresponsible lunch time drinking shunned them as weak. They were not part of our (by now very) happy (not so) few. Oh no.
Someone suggested we all stay for the pub quiz. What a simply marvellous idea. We were already a team, a team forged into steel by the cruel fires of hangover, and tempered with Bloody Marys and beer, far superior to all those weaklings. We would show them how it was done!
We didn't, obviously. We were all utterly wankered, as really we had just topped ourselves up from the night before, then been so delighted at the pain easing that we kept on topping up, pretty much until we toppled over. Which meant the next day, the shame. The Shame!
* So many miles. I tried it once, I whined a lot then tried to go to sleep in a hedge.
** One whole mile.
Monday, 10 August 2015
Saturday, 9 May 2015
True Blue, Baby I (don't really much) Love You...
I am so bored by this election now. Naively, I thought that once it was over, people would stop going on and on about it, and Facebook would go back to pictures of cats and Minion quotes. I like the cats, but I can do without the fucking Minions.
Alas no, due to the rather unexpected result, everything is still all 'election, election, election.' I'm of a mind that really, they are all a bunch of lying, back stabbing cunts, who are more interested in power and personal gain than the actual good of the country, and the civil servants do all the proper work anyway, so maybe we should just get rid of all the fucking politicians.
If we really needed someone in charge, maybe we could get the Queen to do it. Apparently she is very thrifty, keeping her cereal in Tupperware boxes so it doesn't go soggy (I long to be someone organised enough to decant stuff into Tupperware. I went through a phase of putting stuff into adorable Kilner jars, but rapidly lost interest when I realised it just made more washing up). She is also very cunning, as despite having many, many squillions of lovely cashingtons of her own, lots of fabulous bling, and a large selection of palaces, she has convinced the tax payers to give her many more squillions and pay for all her houses, in return for which she waves to them. Brilliant! She'd do an excellent job, I think. And if anyone misses the old system, Prince Philip can make some racist remarks, and they can be annoyed with him and pretend he is a UKIP candidate.
Anyway, back to the bloody election. If everyone is going on about it, I might as well get all my grumbles off my chest here, then go back to sighing covetously over Fairfax and Favor's website, uninhibited by serious thoughts.
Firstly, I hold my hands up and say yes, I did vote for the Tories, and I don't care. It doesn't actually matter a jot that I did anyway, as it made not the slightest difference to the SNP victories. In light of the fact that my vote would change nothing, I voted for what, in my opinion, was the least shit option.
Alas no, due to the rather unexpected result, everything is still all 'election, election, election.' I'm of a mind that really, they are all a bunch of lying, back stabbing cunts, who are more interested in power and personal gain than the actual good of the country, and the civil servants do all the proper work anyway, so maybe we should just get rid of all the fucking politicians.
If we really needed someone in charge, maybe we could get the Queen to do it. Apparently she is very thrifty, keeping her cereal in Tupperware boxes so it doesn't go soggy (I long to be someone organised enough to decant stuff into Tupperware. I went through a phase of putting stuff into adorable Kilner jars, but rapidly lost interest when I realised it just made more washing up). She is also very cunning, as despite having many, many squillions of lovely cashingtons of her own, lots of fabulous bling, and a large selection of palaces, she has convinced the tax payers to give her many more squillions and pay for all her houses, in return for which she waves to them. Brilliant! She'd do an excellent job, I think. And if anyone misses the old system, Prince Philip can make some racist remarks, and they can be annoyed with him and pretend he is a UKIP candidate.
Anyway, back to the bloody election. If everyone is going on about it, I might as well get all my grumbles off my chest here, then go back to sighing covetously over Fairfax and Favor's website, uninhibited by serious thoughts.
Firstly, I hold my hands up and say yes, I did vote for the Tories, and I don't care. It doesn't actually matter a jot that I did anyway, as it made not the slightest difference to the SNP victories. In light of the fact that my vote would change nothing, I voted for what, in my opinion, was the least shit option.
Having observed the SNP in action for a little while now, I had grave reservations about them forming a coalition and actually having real power over the whole country. This is the party that next year is introducing the 'Named Persons' law in Scotland, whereby every single child from birth to eighteen years old will be assigned a state guardian, with the power to access their school and medical records without parental consent, and make decisions for the child's welfare, again, without the parents consenting or being consulted. Let me say that again. A stranger will be given greater powers over the lives of every single Scottish child than the child's own parents will have. Not just children deemed at risk, or in danger or in need. Every single child. And there is no opt out clause. This will happen whether you like it or not.
The arguments in favour of it are that it will mean if multiple agencies are involved in a child's welfare, then this 'Named Person' will be able to coordinate them all, and it will put a stop to cases where different agencies failed to communicate and children came to harm. The alternative is, of course, that the various agencies responsible for child welfare just do their fucking jobs properly, but that is not nearly as much fun as appointing a state guardian to interfere in my child's life.
The inference is also there if you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear from the Named Person, and therefore, well, if you're objecting to having your family life scrutinised by the state, what dirty little secrets are you afraid of being revealed?
The Named Persons issue is one of my biggest SNP bugbears I must admit, but there's quite a few other niggles there too. I can't shake the feeling that an awful lot of their policies are purely vote buying measures, and the true cost is hidden. Take for example the free university places. I know what anyone reading this in England must be thinking- 'Free university places? Surely Tory Girl isn't going to complain about that? We'd chew our own bloody arm off for such privileges.' And no, I'm not complaining, it's going to be jolly nice for us to not have to fork out tuition fees for Saff in a couple of years. But, the trouble with these free places for every Scottish student at a Scottish university is that in order to help finance it, grants for living expenses have been slashed. And the knock on effect of this is that since the introduction of the free places, the number of students from poorer backgrounds has declined.
I may be a Tory voting, pearl twirling, middle class monster, but this disturbs me. The truth is that we could probably afford to pay tuition fees if we had to. We're not going to obviously, because we're not mental, nor that socially responsible, and I would have to either drink a lot less wine, or drink cheaper wine, and both those scenarios are quite depressing. But we could, if we had to, and I can't help but feel that Scotland, Britain, and the world would be a better place if, instead of promising free beer and rainbow unicorns for everyone, tuition fees were means tested and the revenue used to help bright kids from shitty backgrounds build a better life for themselves. But that wouldn't actually be nearly such a popular, shiny, vote grabbing move.
My problems with the free school meals for every child in Primary 1-3 classes are similar. Why are they giving every child a free school lunch? I have absolutely no problem with my taxes being spent on providing one decent meal a day for kids whose parents either can't or won't feed them properly. But why waste millions feeding all the kids whose parents can and do feed them? Why not use that money to try and educate the people who need it most about health and nutrition? Or use it to provide the children who need it with more than one decent meal a day? But again, the grandiose gesture of free school meals for all is a jolly good way of making yourself look awfully attractive to large swathes of the population.
There's lots more I could go on about, but then I'd have to start Googling actual facts and figures to back them up, and it's Saturday night and I just want to drink some* wine (don't tell the SNP). But when it came down to it, although I didn't really want to vote for anyone, I voted Tory, because I didn't think Ed Miliband was a strong enough leader to stand up to the tiny, tartan force of nature that is Nicola Sturgeon. Who knows what will happen now? Maybe we're fucked, maybe we're not. Hopefully at least soon normal service will resume and we'll have some nice cat pictures to look at while the world comes to an end.
*A lot.
The arguments in favour of it are that it will mean if multiple agencies are involved in a child's welfare, then this 'Named Person' will be able to coordinate them all, and it will put a stop to cases where different agencies failed to communicate and children came to harm. The alternative is, of course, that the various agencies responsible for child welfare just do their fucking jobs properly, but that is not nearly as much fun as appointing a state guardian to interfere in my child's life.
The inference is also there if you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear from the Named Person, and therefore, well, if you're objecting to having your family life scrutinised by the state, what dirty little secrets are you afraid of being revealed?
The Named Persons issue is one of my biggest SNP bugbears I must admit, but there's quite a few other niggles there too. I can't shake the feeling that an awful lot of their policies are purely vote buying measures, and the true cost is hidden. Take for example the free university places. I know what anyone reading this in England must be thinking- 'Free university places? Surely Tory Girl isn't going to complain about that? We'd chew our own bloody arm off for such privileges.' And no, I'm not complaining, it's going to be jolly nice for us to not have to fork out tuition fees for Saff in a couple of years. But, the trouble with these free places for every Scottish student at a Scottish university is that in order to help finance it, grants for living expenses have been slashed. And the knock on effect of this is that since the introduction of the free places, the number of students from poorer backgrounds has declined.
I may be a Tory voting, pearl twirling, middle class monster, but this disturbs me. The truth is that we could probably afford to pay tuition fees if we had to. We're not going to obviously, because we're not mental, nor that socially responsible, and I would have to either drink a lot less wine, or drink cheaper wine, and both those scenarios are quite depressing. But we could, if we had to, and I can't help but feel that Scotland, Britain, and the world would be a better place if, instead of promising free beer and rainbow unicorns for everyone, tuition fees were means tested and the revenue used to help bright kids from shitty backgrounds build a better life for themselves. But that wouldn't actually be nearly such a popular, shiny, vote grabbing move.
My problems with the free school meals for every child in Primary 1-3 classes are similar. Why are they giving every child a free school lunch? I have absolutely no problem with my taxes being spent on providing one decent meal a day for kids whose parents either can't or won't feed them properly. But why waste millions feeding all the kids whose parents can and do feed them? Why not use that money to try and educate the people who need it most about health and nutrition? Or use it to provide the children who need it with more than one decent meal a day? But again, the grandiose gesture of free school meals for all is a jolly good way of making yourself look awfully attractive to large swathes of the population.
There's lots more I could go on about, but then I'd have to start Googling actual facts and figures to back them up, and it's Saturday night and I just want to drink some* wine (don't tell the SNP). But when it came down to it, although I didn't really want to vote for anyone, I voted Tory, because I didn't think Ed Miliband was a strong enough leader to stand up to the tiny, tartan force of nature that is Nicola Sturgeon. Who knows what will happen now? Maybe we're fucked, maybe we're not. Hopefully at least soon normal service will resume and we'll have some nice cat pictures to look at while the world comes to an end.
*A lot.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
Partridges
I write this, not sitting in the kitchen sink like my namesake, but one handed, as the other is sitting in a bowl of frozen peas.
"Why?" I hear you cry. "Why are you broken? What misfortune has befallen you?"
I'll bloody tell you what misfortune has befallen me, the DC dropped a sodding great gun safe on my hand.
For those who are unaware, a gun safe is a bloody heavy, great, big, fuck off metal box, with many sturdy locks, that you are required by law to affix to your wall to keep your guns in, if you have any.
The DC doesn't have any guns, but he is most desirous of a proper gun, to shoot proper things. I rather fancied the idea too, feeling that a spot of shooting would fit extraordinarily well into The Vision. Thus, when I saw a second hand gun safe for sale for a bargain price, I snapped it up pronto.
On delivery, despite having seen the photos, and indeed, read the regulations for gun safes, that state unequivocally that they must be huge sodding, thick metal boxes, I was rather disappointed to find it a grey and soviet thing, rather the exquisite cabinet of my imagination, fashioned from rare perfumed woods of the Indies and inlaid with mother of pearl and precious stones.
As it was not pretty, I desired it gone from sight, and immediately banished to its new home in the attic. As we attempted to wrestle it up the ladder, my dear husband crushed my hand with it, causing me great agony and a pressing need for medicinal gin.
As I sat here though, one hand in the frozen peas, the other clutching my gin, I started to wonder if letting him have a shot gun was so very clever. For one thing, I was already maimed, and he hadn't even got a bloody gun yet. For another, I'm not really terribly good with dead things in their natural state. I couldn't help but think of the dreadful Partridge Incident of last autumn.
The Farmers had come to dinner, and as is their wont, had brought a slightly 'unusual' gift- three partridges, freshly shot by Mr Farmer that very afternoon.
I hastily declined all responsibility for the limp bodies and despatched the DC to the garage with them, where, Mr F said, they were to hang for 'a few days'.
Consultation with Mr Google suggested partridge should be hung between five and ten days, so I compromised on seven, while I worked up the courage to deal with them. I quite liked the sight of them hanging there though, and felt they made the garage look rather artistic, suspended there above the ladders and bicycles, like a Dutch still life/ modern installation mash up. I considered entering for the Turner Prize.
Eventually however, Turner Prize stardom or no, I could put it off no longer. I watched several YouTube videos on partridge disembowelment; donned tweed, pearls and Dubarrys to render myself suitably Country; cut them down and resolved to be strong.
Suspecting that the process of preparing partridges for the oven might be a messy one, I covered the garden table in newspaper and prepared for battle. When I lifted the first one up, the head fell off, revealing a seething heap of maggots. I shrieked loudly and flung it in the shrubbery, before scuttling indoors and adding several more strands of pearls to give me strength. Extra Strong Marigolds on, I retrieved the maggot partridge from the midst of the azaleas, lest the Terror think it a convenient snackerel, and tackled the remaining pair.
I was, if I do say so myself, quite splendid! I chopped off heads and feet, removed skin and innards, and, despite clouds of flying feathers clinging to my tweed and catching in the quantities of pearls, finally deposited two tiny carcasses in the rather ambitiously large roasting dish I had brought out with me.
Proudly I carried my trophies aloft into the house, summonsing all to come and see the spoils of my battle with Nature. I left them on the kitchen counter while I went out to remove the debris of my triumph.
Returning to the kitchen, I was met with the most God-awful stench. A maggoty, rotting, decaying odour, that was very quickly traced to my poor, tiny partridges, who were it seemed, a trifle past their best, due to the unseasonably warm autumn we had enjoyed. As even the Terror was retching at the hideous pong, the partridges were despatched to join their colleague in the bin, and all the windows were flung wide to remove the lingering whiff, while I made pasta for dinner, and concocted a suitable fib for the Farmers about how delicious their kind gift had been.
All in all, do I really want the DC regularly casting little corpses at my feet, desiring me to re-enact the whole sorry partridge day over and over again? Admittedly, if his shooting skills are up to his fishing skills, it won't actually be anything I need to worry about, but do I really want to take that risk?
I think not, on reflection. If I can ever wrestle that fucking gun safe out of the attic, I shall put it on Gumtree. In the meantime I am using it to store empty jam jars, just to make my position on the subject totally clear to him.
"Why?" I hear you cry. "Why are you broken? What misfortune has befallen you?"
I'll bloody tell you what misfortune has befallen me, the DC dropped a sodding great gun safe on my hand.
For those who are unaware, a gun safe is a bloody heavy, great, big, fuck off metal box, with many sturdy locks, that you are required by law to affix to your wall to keep your guns in, if you have any.
The DC doesn't have any guns, but he is most desirous of a proper gun, to shoot proper things. I rather fancied the idea too, feeling that a spot of shooting would fit extraordinarily well into The Vision. Thus, when I saw a second hand gun safe for sale for a bargain price, I snapped it up pronto.
On delivery, despite having seen the photos, and indeed, read the regulations for gun safes, that state unequivocally that they must be huge sodding, thick metal boxes, I was rather disappointed to find it a grey and soviet thing, rather the exquisite cabinet of my imagination, fashioned from rare perfumed woods of the Indies and inlaid with mother of pearl and precious stones.
As it was not pretty, I desired it gone from sight, and immediately banished to its new home in the attic. As we attempted to wrestle it up the ladder, my dear husband crushed my hand with it, causing me great agony and a pressing need for medicinal gin.
As I sat here though, one hand in the frozen peas, the other clutching my gin, I started to wonder if letting him have a shot gun was so very clever. For one thing, I was already maimed, and he hadn't even got a bloody gun yet. For another, I'm not really terribly good with dead things in their natural state. I couldn't help but think of the dreadful Partridge Incident of last autumn.
The Farmers had come to dinner, and as is their wont, had brought a slightly 'unusual' gift- three partridges, freshly shot by Mr Farmer that very afternoon.
I hastily declined all responsibility for the limp bodies and despatched the DC to the garage with them, where, Mr F said, they were to hang for 'a few days'.
Consultation with Mr Google suggested partridge should be hung between five and ten days, so I compromised on seven, while I worked up the courage to deal with them. I quite liked the sight of them hanging there though, and felt they made the garage look rather artistic, suspended there above the ladders and bicycles, like a Dutch still life/ modern installation mash up. I considered entering for the Turner Prize.
Eventually however, Turner Prize stardom or no, I could put it off no longer. I watched several YouTube videos on partridge disembowelment; donned tweed, pearls and Dubarrys to render myself suitably Country; cut them down and resolved to be strong.
I was, if I do say so myself, quite splendid! I chopped off heads and feet, removed skin and innards, and, despite clouds of flying feathers clinging to my tweed and catching in the quantities of pearls, finally deposited two tiny carcasses in the rather ambitiously large roasting dish I had brought out with me.
Proudly I carried my trophies aloft into the house, summonsing all to come and see the spoils of my battle with Nature. I left them on the kitchen counter while I went out to remove the debris of my triumph.
Returning to the kitchen, I was met with the most God-awful stench. A maggoty, rotting, decaying odour, that was very quickly traced to my poor, tiny partridges, who were it seemed, a trifle past their best, due to the unseasonably warm autumn we had enjoyed. As even the Terror was retching at the hideous pong, the partridges were despatched to join their colleague in the bin, and all the windows were flung wide to remove the lingering whiff, while I made pasta for dinner, and concocted a suitable fib for the Farmers about how delicious their kind gift had been.
All in all, do I really want the DC regularly casting little corpses at my feet, desiring me to re-enact the whole sorry partridge day over and over again? Admittedly, if his shooting skills are up to his fishing skills, it won't actually be anything I need to worry about, but do I really want to take that risk?
I think not, on reflection. If I can ever wrestle that fucking gun safe out of the attic, I shall put it on Gumtree. In the meantime I am using it to store empty jam jars, just to make my position on the subject totally clear to him.
Wednesday, 28 January 2015
The Rhyme* of the Ancient Cassandra *Lengthy Grumble
6.30am- Bastarding alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.
6.47am- Finally give in and accept I have to get up and stop pressing snooze. Glare hard at the Terror who disagrees with the concept of getting up and wishes to stay cosy and warm in my bed.
6.48am- Bang on Saffy's door, and receive assurances she is up.
6.49am- Physically drag the bastarding dog from my bed.
6.55am- Kick unwilling and protesting dog out for a piss.
7am- Bang on Saffy's door and demand to know what the fuckety fucking fuck she is doing. Receive assurances she is up. Suspect assurances are but hollow and meaningless.
7.05am- Let dog in and feed it.
7.06am- Notice suspicious smell.
7.10am- Track suspicious smell to sodding dog, who has stood in his own shit, tracked it across the kitchen, up the hall and onto the sofa. Vociferously blame Saff for not de-pooping the garden when asked.
7.12am- Have existential crisis.
7.13am- Start scrubbing dog shit, while screaming at Saff to get fucking ready and brush her teeth before she straightens her sodding hair.
7.24am- Finally chivvy children into car. Drive to school bus like a maniac, whilst berating children for never helping round the house unless I nag like a naggy thing. Wonder if perhaps it is my fault children do not help, as I have turned them into pampered middleclass brats. Decide it is not my fault as I am a saintly and helpful person*, and they have clearly inherited all their lazy and selfish genes from the DC and TQ.
7.34am- Shove some unattractive porridge at the Beast. Insist he eats it all, mainly out of general malice.
7.40am- Have tea and marmite toast. Remember after eating the toast that I decided after the third bag of crisps last night that today would be carb free.
7.50am- Read Daily Mail online. Feel smug and judgemental. Take comfort that at least I haven't sold my children's souls, like Shona Sibary.
8am- Attempt to tidy up a bit. Wonder if there's any point in putting away the gin.
8.30am- Remember I haven't made the Beast's packed lunch. Open his lunchbox to find the interior smeared in yesterday's yoghurt, which has now dried on. Confiscate the iPad in a fit of pique.
8.45am- Finally bother to read the note that Scottish Water shoved through the door two days ago. Realise it says they are turning off the water at 9am. Panic fill kettles and pots and turn on the bath.
8.50am- Blizzard starts. Wave son off to school in it. Grit my teeth and resolve to tackle de-crapping the garden. Pick up shit in the blizzard, muttering darkly to myself.
9am- Remember bath is still running, and water has not yet gone off. Run inside and find bath overflowing.
9.05am- Water goes off, as I attempt to mop up the flood in the bathroom. Realise I have not actually managed to get washed, and the bath is full of ice water, that I am keeping for an unspecified 'emergency'. Think about gin and search the sky for albatrosses.
9.30am- Give in to the Terror's demands for a walk. Meet fellow posh Border Terrier lady in the woods. Spend a blissful fifteen minutes conversing with someone who understands. Till the dogs fall out over a rabbit they are both attempting to kill and we must go our separate ways. Cross torrential river with dog, lose balance and fall over. Successfully save iPhone from the raging currents, but not my dignity nor poise. Emerge dripping, to find dog has taken advantage of my distraction and scarpered. Meet the nice retired vet neighbours, as I am standing like a drowned rat bellowing "YOU FUCKING DOG, WHERE ARE YOU?" Confirming my suspicions that the little sod never goes far when he bolts, but just hides to annoy me, the Terror chooses this moment to appear, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Recross the raging currents, hoping the wretched dog gets swept away.
10.30am- Return home, to find the Twat Bags neighbours have parked across the road from my drive again, inhibiting the Mighty Honda's passage. Call police. Speak to nice lady who agrees they are indeed twats** Realise I have turned into the sort of person who calls the police about parking disputes, but my existential crisis is already so severe I cannot bring myself to care. Consider not reading the Daily Mail so much, but discard this foolish notion, because otherwise how would I know what will give me cancer, then cure it; or who Katie Price is married to; or whether Suri Cruise is All Grown Up yet?
10.42am- The glow of the Fires of Righteous Indignation fade, leaving me sodden, cold, grubby and still waterless. With people coming for lunch at 12. Mercy dash to M&S, where I squelch round and spend an unfeasible amount of money on quiche and salad.
11.14am- Stop off at the overpriced pretentious gym I pay £69 a month not to go to. Spend too long in the shower, trying to get my £69's worth. Try not to think about all the other months I've paid for and the true cost of this shower. Think about existential crisis instead, and albatrosses.
12pm- Watch Other People's Children trash my house. Lose the plot when one hits my Most Precious Dog, all thoughts of my wish to drown him forgotten. Find existential crisis greatly eased by chocolate eclairs.
3pm- Survey the carnage, wonder why the police haven't come round yet.
4pm- Collect my ghastly children; dick around on Facebook instead of listening to them wittering. Feel aggrieved that the forecast Snowmageddon is the only topic on the local FB pages, with people demanding to know the state of the roads, instead of having poorly spelt public spats about where they should leave their bins, and how dare farmers put cows in fields they might want to walk through.
5pm- Think about gin. Wonder if it would be unseemly to be shitfaced if the police come. Consider setting timer for six o'clock and legitimate gin.
5.13pm- Realise setting timer for gin was a pointless exercise.
6pm- Look! S'an albatrosh. Oh no, shorry offisher, I mishtook you for an albatrosh. Would you like to hear my tale? Here, have shome ginny gin gin.
*Nosy do-gooder
**Possibly not in so many words
Friday, 16 January 2015
SNOWMAGEDDON!!!!!! Or We Are All Dooooooooooomed!!!!
There is snow. Not that much snow, but enough to cause fear and distress in the hearts of those feeble and pathetic creatures who are not as clever as me. I, of course, possessing a Mighty Honda, a pair of Dubarry boots, and a brave and intrepid soul*, embrace the snow, for I welcome the opportunity to demonstrate to the world just how fucking clever I am, and just how stupid everyone else is.
This time though, my snow day has been spoilt by twats. It should be going so right. The Beast is finally old enough to be sent out sledging in the field by himself. The Terror is exhausted by running around in the snow, and sleeps instead of trying to kill things. I have many ingredients for soup, and much flour to smugly make homemade bread, so I do not have to panic buy from the Local Shop, like the unprepared fools. But I had reckoned without People, and their thwarting ways.
The day started well. So well. How smugly I smirked to myself as I bestrode the frozen fields, judging the other dog walkers as they slipped and slid in their inferior wellies. No slipping for me in my insanely expensive 4x4 Dubes. How I mocked their nasty fleeces and fluorescent water proofs, as I marched on, so cosy in my cashmere, and pitied them all their lack of pearls.
The Terror, for once, even behaved like a normal dog and did bizarre things like coming when called, and not trying to kill packs of giant dogs singlehandedly**. He even removed himself from a rabbit hole when admonished, saving me the ignominy of lying on my stomach in the snow, rootling around trying to grab his tail and haul him out. This excellent behaviour left me in the unusual position of even being able to judge other people's dogs, for being pathetic, feeble creatures that needed to wear coats in the snow, not like my hardy Terror, who laughs in the face of all weather.***
Home from our walk, I had a good chuckle over the local Facebook pages, where there was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth****, and dire warnings to drive nowhere on the snowy roads, for all was doomed, doomed. Then I hopped in my Mighty Honda and popped off to the gym*****. Such fun!
I must confess I did indulge in a spot of panic buying while I was out, but only in Majestic- the idea of running out of wine fills me with horror. I returned home, smugger than a smug thing, as I drove merrily up our hill behind a VW Passat sliding all over the place and blowing blue smoke as they over revved the engine, only to have my smug joy replaced by burning ire when I discovered the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twat neighbours had parked their shitty car across the road from my driveway. Again.
This has been an on-going issue for three years. Our road is narrow. The Twats have off road parking for at least six cars on their driveway, but they refuse to use it, even though if someone parks across the road from a driveway, it's nigh on impossible to reverse out without many complex manoeuvrings. I have explained this to the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twats many many times, including through the medium of sharply reversing into their car and shouting at them for it. I have also tried parking across from their driveway to demonstrate the difficulties they cause me; and my personal favourite, standing in the street with the nice old ladies who live on either side of me and loudly discussing the Twats' shortcomings, both in parking and for being lazy, workshy, southern fops, who ponce around being all 'meejah' instead of having proper jobs. Also, they once stole my hedgehog******
This time the DC assured me he had dealt with it. He had spoken to He Twat, who had moved the car. To a worse place. He had spoken to them again and they had promised to move it. He went to the pub. He came home and the car had moved four feet. He went to 'speak' to them again. It seems having fourteen stone of angry, swearing Irishman on your doorstep concentrates the mind wonderfully. The car is now parked outside their own driveway, but I think it's time for us to move.
*Some say I am just foolish and reckless, but they are stupid. And wrong.
**I was going to say 'singlepawedly' but that seemed excessively twee.
***Except sunshine. Sunshine makes him want to die. I suspect he may be a vampire dog. But luckily we live in Scotland, so sun is never a problem.
****Well, teeth were gnashed in the Enclave. The Non-Enclavular Villages have to arrange an Annual Tooth Gnash, where they all gather by torchlight and solemnly watch each village's Tooth make a grand Procession to the Square, whence the Elder Wolf Man of each village bears The Village Tooth forth and all the Teeth are ceremonially gnashed together, to represent all frustration suffered over the preceding year. Soup is served afterwards.
***** Swam one length, then went in the Jacuzzi and steam room.
****** The hedgehog theft still rankles so deeply, I may have to devote a whole separate blog post to it. It was my hedgehog. And they stole it! Twats!
This time though, my snow day has been spoilt by twats. It should be going so right. The Beast is finally old enough to be sent out sledging in the field by himself. The Terror is exhausted by running around in the snow, and sleeps instead of trying to kill things. I have many ingredients for soup, and much flour to smugly make homemade bread, so I do not have to panic buy from the Local Shop, like the unprepared fools. But I had reckoned without People, and their thwarting ways.
The day started well. So well. How smugly I smirked to myself as I bestrode the frozen fields, judging the other dog walkers as they slipped and slid in their inferior wellies. No slipping for me in my insanely expensive 4x4 Dubes. How I mocked their nasty fleeces and fluorescent water proofs, as I marched on, so cosy in my cashmere, and pitied them all their lack of pearls.
The Terror, for once, even behaved like a normal dog and did bizarre things like coming when called, and not trying to kill packs of giant dogs singlehandedly**. He even removed himself from a rabbit hole when admonished, saving me the ignominy of lying on my stomach in the snow, rootling around trying to grab his tail and haul him out. This excellent behaviour left me in the unusual position of even being able to judge other people's dogs, for being pathetic, feeble creatures that needed to wear coats in the snow, not like my hardy Terror, who laughs in the face of all weather.***Home from our walk, I had a good chuckle over the local Facebook pages, where there was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth****, and dire warnings to drive nowhere on the snowy roads, for all was doomed, doomed. Then I hopped in my Mighty Honda and popped off to the gym*****. Such fun!
I must confess I did indulge in a spot of panic buying while I was out, but only in Majestic- the idea of running out of wine fills me with horror. I returned home, smugger than a smug thing, as I drove merrily up our hill behind a VW Passat sliding all over the place and blowing blue smoke as they over revved the engine, only to have my smug joy replaced by burning ire when I discovered the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twat neighbours had parked their shitty car across the road from my driveway. Again.
This has been an on-going issue for three years. Our road is narrow. The Twats have off road parking for at least six cars on their driveway, but they refuse to use it, even though if someone parks across the road from a driveway, it's nigh on impossible to reverse out without many complex manoeuvrings. I have explained this to the Twatting Twattish Twatty Twats many many times, including through the medium of sharply reversing into their car and shouting at them for it. I have also tried parking across from their driveway to demonstrate the difficulties they cause me; and my personal favourite, standing in the street with the nice old ladies who live on either side of me and loudly discussing the Twats' shortcomings, both in parking and for being lazy, workshy, southern fops, who ponce around being all 'meejah' instead of having proper jobs. Also, they once stole my hedgehog******
This time the DC assured me he had dealt with it. He had spoken to He Twat, who had moved the car. To a worse place. He had spoken to them again and they had promised to move it. He went to the pub. He came home and the car had moved four feet. He went to 'speak' to them again. It seems having fourteen stone of angry, swearing Irishman on your doorstep concentrates the mind wonderfully. The car is now parked outside their own driveway, but I think it's time for us to move.
*Some say I am just foolish and reckless, but they are stupid. And wrong.
**I was going to say 'singlepawedly' but that seemed excessively twee.
***Except sunshine. Sunshine makes him want to die. I suspect he may be a vampire dog. But luckily we live in Scotland, so sun is never a problem.
****Well, teeth were gnashed in the Enclave. The Non-Enclavular Villages have to arrange an Annual Tooth Gnash, where they all gather by torchlight and solemnly watch each village's Tooth make a grand Procession to the Square, whence the Elder Wolf Man of each village bears The Village Tooth forth and all the Teeth are ceremonially gnashed together, to represent all frustration suffered over the preceding year. Soup is served afterwards.
***** Swam one length, then went in the Jacuzzi and steam room.
****** The hedgehog theft still rankles so deeply, I may have to devote a whole separate blog post to it. It was my hedgehog. And they stole it! Twats!
Wednesday, 14 January 2015
Of Pearls and Print.
I have been chastised for my feeble and pathetic approach to blogging and have resolved to try harder. I have also resolved to drink less gin and go to the gym though, neither of which are likely to happen, so don't hold your breath.
All the jolly, festive things I could have blogged about are no longer pertinent, as I was extremely busy over the festivities working my way through the 51 bottles of wine the DC had thoughtfully purchased to numb the pain of Christmas with the TQ.
Suffice to say that in a break with tradition, I did not end Christmas Day crying in the garage with a bottle of Baileys for company, declaring my hatred of humanity in general and my family in particular. This year I decided to cry in the dining room instead, due to the garage roof blowing off. I must say the dining room proved a much better choice, having a) heating b) an armchair and c) lots of other booze as well as Baileys, and I think I shall make that my default flounce location in future.
In other news I have binned off the PTA, hurrah, such fun, joy of joys of joyous joys! I am free as a bird to tell anyone and everyone to fucking fuck off as far as they fucking can, to my black, little heart's content. Or I was, for about a week, when my desire to meddle, do good and annoy people all at the same time overcame me, and I signed up to help with the local newsletter ("It's not a newsletter Cassandra, it's a proper newspaper" Despite it being only twelve pages long, six of which are obituaries, and only issued quarterly).
This is not as dire as it sounds. The newspaper is run by a coven of fritefly fritefly Grande Dames, who rule the village with an iron fist. The good thing about associating with them is that I am young and sprightly by comparison, and also I don't have to explain why I talk like a BBC radio programme from 1932, because as far as they are concerned, that is how everyone should speak, and if you don't, you are a ghaaaaaastly oik, or one of the staff.
I swathed myself in pearls upon pearls and draped many layers of cashmere about myself for the first meeting. I drew the line at tweed, lest they thought I was taking the piss, but on reflection, I could totally have got away with it. I perhaps overdid the pearls and cashmere slightly though, as I may have been a bit bling for the dowagers, judging by a few of the 'looks' cast through their lorgnettes.*
The meeting was blissful blissikins. They know everything about everyone (I was slightly worried what they might know about me), and it turned out we all hate the same people. Much of the meeting was devoted to how much they could publish about secret planning applications for the enclave, which may sound dullsville, but we do adore a good planning ding dong out here in the country. My eyes must have grown saucer like and my jaw slack with wonder at the gossip being revealed, because eventually Clarissa felt compelled to snap "You realise all this is confidential Cassandra, and you must be extremely discreet" and I slumped disconsolately against Dorothy's divine silk cushions and resumed wondering how much her house was worth.
I did however stun them with the revelation that I could do spreadsheets, which seemed to them a thing of wonder, and I was thus deemed worthy to be accepted into their number. I twirled my pearls in acknowledgement of the honour bestowed upon me, and spoilt the moment rather by choking on a crisp.
*OK, maybe they didn't actually have lorgnettes, but in my head they did!
All the jolly, festive things I could have blogged about are no longer pertinent, as I was extremely busy over the festivities working my way through the 51 bottles of wine the DC had thoughtfully purchased to numb the pain of Christmas with the TQ.
Suffice to say that in a break with tradition, I did not end Christmas Day crying in the garage with a bottle of Baileys for company, declaring my hatred of humanity in general and my family in particular. This year I decided to cry in the dining room instead, due to the garage roof blowing off. I must say the dining room proved a much better choice, having a) heating b) an armchair and c) lots of other booze as well as Baileys, and I think I shall make that my default flounce location in future.
In other news I have binned off the PTA, hurrah, such fun, joy of joys of joyous joys! I am free as a bird to tell anyone and everyone to fucking fuck off as far as they fucking can, to my black, little heart's content. Or I was, for about a week, when my desire to meddle, do good and annoy people all at the same time overcame me, and I signed up to help with the local newsletter ("It's not a newsletter Cassandra, it's a proper newspaper" Despite it being only twelve pages long, six of which are obituaries, and only issued quarterly).
This is not as dire as it sounds. The newspaper is run by a coven of fritefly fritefly Grande Dames, who rule the village with an iron fist. The good thing about associating with them is that I am young and sprightly by comparison, and also I don't have to explain why I talk like a BBC radio programme from 1932, because as far as they are concerned, that is how everyone should speak, and if you don't, you are a ghaaaaaastly oik, or one of the staff.
The meeting was blissful blissikins. They know everything about everyone (I was slightly worried what they might know about me), and it turned out we all hate the same people. Much of the meeting was devoted to how much they could publish about secret planning applications for the enclave, which may sound dullsville, but we do adore a good planning ding dong out here in the country. My eyes must have grown saucer like and my jaw slack with wonder at the gossip being revealed, because eventually Clarissa felt compelled to snap "You realise all this is confidential Cassandra, and you must be extremely discreet" and I slumped disconsolately against Dorothy's divine silk cushions and resumed wondering how much her house was worth.
I did however stun them with the revelation that I could do spreadsheets, which seemed to them a thing of wonder, and I was thus deemed worthy to be accepted into their number. I twirled my pearls in acknowledgement of the honour bestowed upon me, and spoilt the moment rather by choking on a crisp.
*OK, maybe they didn't actually have lorgnettes, but in my head they did!
Wednesday, 19 November 2014
A Feat of Gin
It has alas, been rather too long since I last posted anything. I would like to say that this is because I have been being tebbly tebbly busy and important, but actually it's mainly because I've been going out for lunch and dicking around on Facebook and buying cushions on EBay. However, as I have now expanded to my full width and can't fit my giant arse on the sofa to look at Facebook in comfort due to all the fucking cushions, I have returned to you, my sweets!
Last weekend we ventured forth from The Enclave, to the ancient and venerable city of Stirling, there to attend a Gin Festival, no less!
What a splendid plan, we thought! What could possibly go wrong on a day where we would start drinking unlimited quantities of neat gin at 3pm? Clearly, absolutely nothing at all!
Filled with joyous anticipation, we collected the Friends, and trundled northwards. As the rain was pissing down, Mrs F and I hatched a cunning plan to give the grumpy husbands and their notions of moderation the slip, and demanded we be dropped off at the hotel where the vats of gin were, lest our hair was spoiled by the rain, while they, lacking hair as they do, went further afield to find somewhere to abandon the car for the night.
We were handed little bags as we went in, containing bumf and a tea cup. Rather bizarre we thought, but nothing daunted, we pressed on, pausing only at a charming vintage tat stall to purchase some charming vintage tat before horrid husbands could appear and complain.
Feeling very clever by then, we flung ourselves with joy at the first gin man, something called Boe Gin. "Tea cups" said the Gin Man. We looked at him blankly and he explained the tea cups were to taste the gin in! Gin in tea cups! We were too delighted, and even more so when he filled our cups with a very strong G&T! What was not to love! Though the gin itself was unremarkable.
We wandered on, still gulping our enormous cup of gin, to the next stand, which bizarrely was a Port stand. I told the nice lady I didn't like port, but she disagreed and told me I did, and gave us pink port with tonic and strawberries, and white port with elderflower tonic, and tawny port with ice, and I agreed tha' akshly yesh, I liked port ver' mush.
We proceeded, hardly swaying at all, to Edinburgh Gin, where we had Rhubarb and Ginger Gin (too gingery); Elderflower Gin (meh); Raspberry Gin ( we already knew we liked that, as Mrs F and I had drunk a whole bottle a couple of weeks before) and finally their 57% proof Navy Strength Gin, which the man made us drink neat and was horrid and peppery and burnt like fuck. I did however learn why it is called Navy Strength- because in the olden days, all the spirits given to the sailors had to be over 57%, so even if they spilled it on the gunpowder, the powder would still ignite*. Oh damn this modern age and those pesky Health and Safety rules...
Next we wandered, possibly weaving slightly, to Strathearn Gin. They had four gins and a very talkative whippersnapper. We grew tired of waiting for the whippersnapper to stop chattering and pour us some gin and helped ourselves liberally to his selection, none of which we liked. When he finally stopped yittering and turned his attention to us, he told us off for tasting them in the wrong order and spoiling our palates.
We laughed scornfully** and tottered to a very nasty place with a burly bearded man who gave us a revolting gin made from hops. We initially judged him for refusing our tea cups and dispensing his vile gin in little plastic shot glasses, but once we tasted how unspeakable it was, we were glad of his parsimony. I have blocked the name of his distillery, I was so distressed by the experience.
At this point, as we squinted into the glasses, wondering if we could just hand it back and say "Yucksville", the husbands found us. They had been sampling gin in another hall, but as they had decided to shun the tea cups as being a ridiculous foppishness, they had only had tiny taster thimbles of gin, as opposed to our large cupfuls. However they appeared at a most opportune moment, as we were able to trick them into drinking the rank gin and run away from them again, pausing only to demand cash, in case we found more Lovely Things*** to buy.
And run we did, as fast as our inebriated little legs would carry us, straight into the arms of Rock Rose. Mmmmmm, Rock Rose. We liked Rock Rose. Rock Rose Gin is made by an incredibly handsome young chap, all sort of dark and tousled and Heathcliffy, with big soulful eyes. He forages the Caithness shores for his botanicals, doubtless striding a moor or two in a distraught fashion if he can't find the right gin making things. Mrs F and I brandished our tea cups most coquettishly, and batted our eyelashes, while asking as many intelligent sounding questions about gin making as we could think of****, and trying not to giggle to each other like love struck school girls.
It was unfortunate that the lady on the stand with him was his wife. She forages too apparently, but I bet she doesn't do it in a dramatically romantic manner. The wife revelation was rather sobering, and we drained our tea cups and fled, but not before agreeing that the gin was almost as divine as its maker- very light and crisp, with a delicate, floral flavour***** The husbands however, declared it too floral and girly, but then again they disapproved of our shameless flirting almost as much as Mrs Rock Rose.
To the next room, and Brockmans Gin. Blackberry flavoured, or something. We didn't feel the love, and he was not handsome and was a bit too Cock-er-ney for our refined tastes. The husbands liked his gin though, but they were wrong.
The next stall had a most handsome young chappy, but he had a bevvy of women clustered around him; we judged them shameless hussies and did not deign to be in their desperate company and passed on to Burleigh's Gin. The distiller was not so young, but rather debonair, and he was a jolly decent chap and for form's sake****** we asked him the ver' intelligent gin making questions we had asked hot young Rock Rose. His gin was fucking divine. Really, really, really amazingly good. He had three: London Dry, Export Strength and Distiller's Cut. They were all smooth, delicious and moreish, even neat, but by far the best one was Distiller's Cut. It was the only one that was actually nice without tonic, without even a hint of a burn, and it had been made specifically for Martinis, a drink I always thought was a socially acceptable way of saying "I am a raging alcoholic who enjoys necking neat gin". Made with the Distiller's Cut though, a Martini would actually be rather nice, in a shameless drunkard sort of a way.
Having sampled Burleigh's at length, we noticed the totty on the other stand had been deserted by his trollops and hot footed it over there quick smart, the husbands trailing resignedly in our 57% proof wake. Pickering's Gin, this was. Alas, he was yumtious, but his gin was not. Peppery. Bleurgh. He makes it in a converted dog kennel in Edinburgh for some reason.
At this point, the husbands gave up their attempts to urge restraint or avoidance of sexual harassment charges upon us and left us to our own devices to sample the remaining gins, which were Darnley's View- vile and dispensed by a very bossy and angry lady; and Makar Gin, made in Glasgow's only gin distillery- unspeakably awful, tasted like it had been scooped out the Clyde, though it maybe wasn't necessary for Mrs F to say that quite so loudly in earshot of the distiller.
We took an executive decision to return to Rock Rose, to enjoy both the view and the gin. Our hopes were raised as we passed Mrs RR, heading away from the hall, and Mrs F shouted "Quick, RUN, she's left him alone." We dashed to Rock Rose as quick as our gin soaked little legs could carry us, and were just settling in to the eyelash batting routine again, while he, clearly taking us for serious gin afficiondos, droned on about the distilling process, when Mrs RR, clearly having heard our battle cries, reappeared to defend her husband's virtue from the gin soaked Jezebels. At the same time the husbands appeared and ignoring our demands for more gin, bore us off to dinner.
Dinner, all things considered, was fairly uneventful. I demanded to take all the leftover steak home for the Terror, and the waitress was slightly nonplussed when Mrs F summonsed her with a demand for limes to take home, as there were none at the farm, but they duly provided us with three. I'm not entirely sure why we thought it would be a good idea to sing The Hounds of Love (well, I say sing, we just sort of bayed) in the bar afterwards, waiting for the taxi, but the husbands shushed us quickly and only muttered a little about us being 'a bit much'. We repaired, complete with foraged limes, back to the farm, there to drink more gin and make salacious noises about Rock Rose Boy.
At some point another taxi came and took the DC and I home. Most remarkable of all, I wasn't even slightly hungover the next day, which suggests gin is actually a health drink and I should partake of a lot more of it!
*I have carefully retained this useful fact, in I ever find myself on a eighteenth century ship. I have been reading far too many Outlander books.
** Sniggered pissedly
***Tat
**** -Do you like making gin?
-Is it hard (snigger)?
-Can we have your babies?
*****Yes, we could still taste, and no, our opinion was not solely based on lustful thoughts about the distiller.
****** The husbands had caught up with us and we were attempting to pretend we were only interested in gin and were not Whores of Babylon.
Last weekend we ventured forth from The Enclave, to the ancient and venerable city of Stirling, there to attend a Gin Festival, no less!
What a splendid plan, we thought! What could possibly go wrong on a day where we would start drinking unlimited quantities of neat gin at 3pm? Clearly, absolutely nothing at all!
Filled with joyous anticipation, we collected the Friends, and trundled northwards. As the rain was pissing down, Mrs F and I hatched a cunning plan to give the grumpy husbands and their notions of moderation the slip, and demanded we be dropped off at the hotel where the vats of gin were, lest our hair was spoiled by the rain, while they, lacking hair as they do, went further afield to find somewhere to abandon the car for the night.
We were handed little bags as we went in, containing bumf and a tea cup. Rather bizarre we thought, but nothing daunted, we pressed on, pausing only at a charming vintage tat stall to purchase some charming vintage tat before horrid husbands could appear and complain.
Feeling very clever by then, we flung ourselves with joy at the first gin man, something called Boe Gin. "Tea cups" said the Gin Man. We looked at him blankly and he explained the tea cups were to taste the gin in! Gin in tea cups! We were too delighted, and even more so when he filled our cups with a very strong G&T! What was not to love! Though the gin itself was unremarkable.
We wandered on, still gulping our enormous cup of gin, to the next stand, which bizarrely was a Port stand. I told the nice lady I didn't like port, but she disagreed and told me I did, and gave us pink port with tonic and strawberries, and white port with elderflower tonic, and tawny port with ice, and I agreed tha' akshly yesh, I liked port ver' mush.
We proceeded, hardly swaying at all, to Edinburgh Gin, where we had Rhubarb and Ginger Gin (too gingery); Elderflower Gin (meh); Raspberry Gin ( we already knew we liked that, as Mrs F and I had drunk a whole bottle a couple of weeks before) and finally their 57% proof Navy Strength Gin, which the man made us drink neat and was horrid and peppery and burnt like fuck. I did however learn why it is called Navy Strength- because in the olden days, all the spirits given to the sailors had to be over 57%, so even if they spilled it on the gunpowder, the powder would still ignite*. Oh damn this modern age and those pesky Health and Safety rules...Next we wandered, possibly weaving slightly, to Strathearn Gin. They had four gins and a very talkative whippersnapper. We grew tired of waiting for the whippersnapper to stop chattering and pour us some gin and helped ourselves liberally to his selection, none of which we liked. When he finally stopped yittering and turned his attention to us, he told us off for tasting them in the wrong order and spoiling our palates.
We laughed scornfully** and tottered to a very nasty place with a burly bearded man who gave us a revolting gin made from hops. We initially judged him for refusing our tea cups and dispensing his vile gin in little plastic shot glasses, but once we tasted how unspeakable it was, we were glad of his parsimony. I have blocked the name of his distillery, I was so distressed by the experience.
At this point, as we squinted into the glasses, wondering if we could just hand it back and say "Yucksville", the husbands found us. They had been sampling gin in another hall, but as they had decided to shun the tea cups as being a ridiculous foppishness, they had only had tiny taster thimbles of gin, as opposed to our large cupfuls. However they appeared at a most opportune moment, as we were able to trick them into drinking the rank gin and run away from them again, pausing only to demand cash, in case we found more Lovely Things*** to buy.
And run we did, as fast as our inebriated little legs would carry us, straight into the arms of Rock Rose. Mmmmmm, Rock Rose. We liked Rock Rose. Rock Rose Gin is made by an incredibly handsome young chap, all sort of dark and tousled and Heathcliffy, with big soulful eyes. He forages the Caithness shores for his botanicals, doubtless striding a moor or two in a distraught fashion if he can't find the right gin making things. Mrs F and I brandished our tea cups most coquettishly, and batted our eyelashes, while asking as many intelligent sounding questions about gin making as we could think of****, and trying not to giggle to each other like love struck school girls.
It was unfortunate that the lady on the stand with him was his wife. She forages too apparently, but I bet she doesn't do it in a dramatically romantic manner. The wife revelation was rather sobering, and we drained our tea cups and fled, but not before agreeing that the gin was almost as divine as its maker- very light and crisp, with a delicate, floral flavour***** The husbands however, declared it too floral and girly, but then again they disapproved of our shameless flirting almost as much as Mrs Rock Rose.
To the next room, and Brockmans Gin. Blackberry flavoured, or something. We didn't feel the love, and he was not handsome and was a bit too Cock-er-ney for our refined tastes. The husbands liked his gin though, but they were wrong.
The next stall had a most handsome young chappy, but he had a bevvy of women clustered around him; we judged them shameless hussies and did not deign to be in their desperate company and passed on to Burleigh's Gin. The distiller was not so young, but rather debonair, and he was a jolly decent chap and for form's sake****** we asked him the ver' intelligent gin making questions we had asked hot young Rock Rose. His gin was fucking divine. Really, really, really amazingly good. He had three: London Dry, Export Strength and Distiller's Cut. They were all smooth, delicious and moreish, even neat, but by far the best one was Distiller's Cut. It was the only one that was actually nice without tonic, without even a hint of a burn, and it had been made specifically for Martinis, a drink I always thought was a socially acceptable way of saying "I am a raging alcoholic who enjoys necking neat gin". Made with the Distiller's Cut though, a Martini would actually be rather nice, in a shameless drunkard sort of a way.
Having sampled Burleigh's at length, we noticed the totty on the other stand had been deserted by his trollops and hot footed it over there quick smart, the husbands trailing resignedly in our 57% proof wake. Pickering's Gin, this was. Alas, he was yumtious, but his gin was not. Peppery. Bleurgh. He makes it in a converted dog kennel in Edinburgh for some reason.
At this point, the husbands gave up their attempts to urge restraint or avoidance of sexual harassment charges upon us and left us to our own devices to sample the remaining gins, which were Darnley's View- vile and dispensed by a very bossy and angry lady; and Makar Gin, made in Glasgow's only gin distillery- unspeakably awful, tasted like it had been scooped out the Clyde, though it maybe wasn't necessary for Mrs F to say that quite so loudly in earshot of the distiller.
We took an executive decision to return to Rock Rose, to enjoy both the view and the gin. Our hopes were raised as we passed Mrs RR, heading away from the hall, and Mrs F shouted "Quick, RUN, she's left him alone." We dashed to Rock Rose as quick as our gin soaked little legs could carry us, and were just settling in to the eyelash batting routine again, while he, clearly taking us for serious gin afficiondos, droned on about the distilling process, when Mrs RR, clearly having heard our battle cries, reappeared to defend her husband's virtue from the gin soaked Jezebels. At the same time the husbands appeared and ignoring our demands for more gin, bore us off to dinner.
Dinner, all things considered, was fairly uneventful. I demanded to take all the leftover steak home for the Terror, and the waitress was slightly nonplussed when Mrs F summonsed her with a demand for limes to take home, as there were none at the farm, but they duly provided us with three. I'm not entirely sure why we thought it would be a good idea to sing The Hounds of Love (well, I say sing, we just sort of bayed) in the bar afterwards, waiting for the taxi, but the husbands shushed us quickly and only muttered a little about us being 'a bit much'. We repaired, complete with foraged limes, back to the farm, there to drink more gin and make salacious noises about Rock Rose Boy.
At some point another taxi came and took the DC and I home. Most remarkable of all, I wasn't even slightly hungover the next day, which suggests gin is actually a health drink and I should partake of a lot more of it!
*I have carefully retained this useful fact, in I ever find myself on a eighteenth century ship. I have been reading far too many Outlander books.
** Sniggered pissedly
***Tat
**** -Do you like making gin?
-Is it hard (snigger)?
-Can we have your babies?
*****Yes, we could still taste, and no, our opinion was not solely based on lustful thoughts about the distiller.
****** The husbands had caught up with us and we were attempting to pretend we were only interested in gin and were not Whores of Babylon.
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