Wednesday, April 02, 2003

”Sadly, Widdecombe's stilted, arid prose fails to ignite the couple's supposedly passionate relationship and something about Catherine reminded me irresistibly of Gwendolen Mary from Malory Towers. There is more stiff upper lip than grand amour about Catherine's whole story: the only surprise is that no one pops up wearing a gymslip to tell her that sleeping with the enemy is simply not cricket.”
So opines Flatmate A in The Observer. Aw, ain’t she clever?

And ain’t Flatmate B clever? She’s had her work on Restless Leg Syndrome published, including her beautiful pencil drawings. It’s just me in the flat who hasn’t had something put out in print to the public this week, but the screening I mentioned in my last post went so well, I’m not bitter. No, really I’m not.

Yes, after all the worry and grief surrounding the sodding screening, it did actually go well. The kids turned up and were overjoyed to see their films and get their (hastily put together) prizes and everyone had a great time scoffing the BBC’s cold buffet. I managed to overdo it with the mini-quiches and rolled home exhausted and bilious but fabulously relieved that the whole frickin’ thing was over. It was a bit like doing a play; bums on seats, latecomers, reaping the results of my much laboured hype about the whole thing, breathing a sigh of relief as the lights dimmed and the evening kicked off and then meeting and greeting over drinks and nibbles afterwards, finally relaxed enough to look around and enjoy myself a little bit.

Then I had myself a four day weekend in which I…

1) slept
2) ate
3) watched TV
4) fell asleep on the sofa watching TV
5) went to Boy Toddler’s second birthday party and ate trifle for the first time in several years and more mini-quiches
6) then went straight to a mad Polish restaurant to treat my Mummy on Mother’s Day and ate far too much mad Polish food including pepper vodka, coconut sponge cakes, dumplings, herrings, smoked eels, pork knuckle, white cabbage, red cabbage, green cabbage, duck, blinis, smoked salmon and rum-laden pancakes and vanilla cream. Daddy is usually a bit sniffy about Western food and doesn’t often approve (of anything, in fact) but he was mysteriously quiet throughout the very heavy meal, which was in Daddy’s particular language equivalent to 5 Michelin stars.

Hmm. Judging by my diet from Sunday evening onwards, it is no wonder that I have been so austere with myself and my vegetables. Still, nothing beats eating pie. Mmm, pie… spicy brains pie…

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