Sorry about this but I need to lighten my mood so no offence intended, even though I might appear to be having a go. After all, it’s a personal matter, I could have handled it better and it’s not been a great week (slaps forehead and looks to the skies).
Anyway I have nobody to blame but myself and those bloody
runners of course. Who the hell would want to run a marathon in Manchester anyway? Bloody
traffic diversions and for what? Looney arsed runners that's what… and yes I do
know they do it for charity and not the glory of being able to tell everybody
that they did it. Thousands and thousand of pounds and they keep the pasta
economy running but get ORF MY FOOKING ROADS YUZ TWATS! I need to drive to the
hospital on a mercy mission.
I did get to the hospital eventually, sadly not managing to take a few of those runners with me on my bumper. Another three car parking quid down the drain and if it was going to be anything like the last few days then I’m simply burning my money (not that pound coins burn very easily). My mother in law has decided, after a brief spell of something resembling life (but not as we know it Jim) to vegetabalise and sleep through my funny banter in a dribbling horror show of nothing, regardless of my patter. Well, we were warned this would happen, so that makes it all okay matron.
What we weren’t warned about was that when we got there today she was sitting up in bed with the Queen’s hair on and managing to make at least as much sense as the Queen’s Christmas speech. Of course the talk was all about bowel movements, medication, and pureed food – so not any different from the last ten years or so apart from the bedpans – but she did manage to recognise my wife and look right through me as usual. We left secure in the knowledge that we didn’t have a bleeding clue what to expect next and feeling that the treadmill we were already on had just become bigger and steeper.
Which brings me to spiralizers (I always like to finish on a must-have high). I didn’t realise until today just how deprived I am. I don’t own one you see, so I can’t make courgette spaghetti and have to stick to that terrible Italian-made dried stuff they sell in the supermarket. How can I eat my homemade meatballs in a rich wine and tomato sauce with lashings of parmesan and really buttery garlic bread without courgette pasta? I really do need one. Gosh, every home should have one. It's as indispensable as one of those things to hang your bananas from or a George Foreman grill.
So there you have it. Not only have I had a really poor Sunday (despite the sunshine and vodka) but I am so desperate to cheer myself up that I’ve resorted to type. Sarcasm really is the lowest form of wit and with each day that passes I find myself getting lower as I rush towards my wit’s end in a handcart holding a rotting banana.
On well, who needs friends on Facebook when it’s the Durrell’s on TV tonight? Now that’s what I call real life. Do you think they have a spiralizer?