School of Life/Spotlight sale.

FFS

I left work in a flurry of excitement last Thursday, and then it took me almost an hour to get across 2 suburbs.
But absolutely worth it to get to the largest , cleanest and most organised Spotlight store I've ever seen.
That's not to say that it's very clean or organised mind you, just that it could be far worse.

Sadly though, there were no trolleys left when I arrived.

But that's my fault as I had stopped to set the world to right in the manchester section first, by rearranging all the NRL merchandise.
I routinely place all Roosters items at the back (sometimes even underneath the shelving), and replace those vile nasties with all beautiful South Sydney Rabbitohs merchandise instead.
Much better.

Little deeds of kindness and consideration such as this all add up and help with the overall energy and tone of this planet, I believe.
It's called taking one for the team, and you're welcome.

So, my moral quota fulfilled, I was free to mince on down to the quilting fabric section and jostle with the standard herds of aggressive menopausal cows for fabric.

Actually, it wasn't too bad.
Most likely that's because they were all snatching up wishy washy florals and plaids rather than the bright and colourful bolts that I like.

Anyway, no trolleys.
These robust women, most being clearly in the need of some (any) exercise, had taken them all - some now carrying only 2 or 3 bolts of fabric in them.
Pathetic.

Never mind. Trolleys are for the weak.
We're talking about cloth here FFS, not bricks.
Should the need ever arise, I could do 20 miles with 20 bolts strapped to my back. Easy.

Some time later, after grabbing maybe a dozen bolts and struggling to the checkout line...do I need to tell you that there were only 2 people cutting fabric on sale night.. .or did you assume that when I said Spotlight?

Well, I was about 6 people back, trying to balance 2 armfuls of (very nice) fabric, my handbag and my jacket, without dislocating my shoulder.

I thought I was doing rather nicely too. No pain, no gain.

But, I must have looked awkward enough to cause one of the ladies with 3 bolts of fabric in a trolley a little guilt though, because she kindly offered to let me share her trolley...

How nice.

So after thanking her and dumping my 2 arm loads of fabric (far more attractive than hers) into it, I retired to my spot, 2 people back to quietly and accurately judge people by their fabric choices. ;O)

A few minutes later, I realised with no small amount of glee, that just as I was checking out people's fabrics, they were checking out mine.
But, they were assuming that it belonged to her, poor thing.

I suspect it was rather a confusing and sobering experience for her.

My pile of bright 1960's reds and oranges, my dog print for Clair, my glittery white, my fire engine red flowers...you get the picture.
As one lady pushed past her, I heard her remark to her daughter, "OMG, look at that one!"

I glanced at my kindly and long suffering trolley friend, only to see her standing with her head bowed with the shame of being a fabric outcast for having chosen non-cottage themed prints at a Spotlight sale.
Um-ahhhhhhh!

I may make fun of it now, but she really did look a little put out and confused at all the attention our trolley was receiving.

I'm used to it.
Indeed, I enjoy it.
And it was really interesting to me to watch a completely different reaction up close and personal.

Of course, the moral to the story here, can be 1 of 3 things...

1) don't be so lazy as to hog a trolley when you're buying precious little
2) don't let anyone else's opinion mean crap to you
3) don't be so kind/guilty

I'm pleased to acknowledge that I indulge in none of these behaviours, but that I now own a good deal more fabric than I did last week.
And none of it has roses on it.
To Hell with roses.

Sewing updates.

I have been behaving.
Unless you count that little visit to Spotlight's sale last week. But I'll tell you about that later.

But, in terms of focus and completion, I'm doing very well.

The top pic is of my hexagons. I have all but finished the blocks and now have only (hahaha, did you get that?), only to sew a billion mud coloured hexagons, stitch them all painstakingly to the rest and then attach all the finished blocks.
Simple really.
But then, I've discovered that hexagon quilts don't finish with a straight edge, and therefore I must find a way to deal with this...
This is what comes from just jumping in and learning as you go.

But the biggest problem I have is that I must decide whether or not to log on and purchase more indigenous fabric and make the quilt huge. Then I won't have to worry about finishing it off until a lot later.

My extravagant creative instinct says go.
My even more extravagant creative instinct says, well, if you do that, then you won't be able to start on the multi coloured one, or the vegetable one one have planned...
Dilemma.

Oh well, so in the mean time, I'm doing Dad's jigsaw quilt and I avoided facing hexagon reality yesterday by pulling out all the friendship blocks I have received so far and sewing them together instead.

Since October 2006, I have been in a block swap with 3 other girlies and just a few months later, it became 4 other girlies.
The basic idea is that each month you make a block for someone and post it to them, and of course, each month, you receive one yourself.
There is a roster so that you know who you're sewing for, and have a basic idea of their fabric tastes etc.

I don't believe that I have consulted this list even once.
No, that's not entirely true.
I did notice that Clair doesn't like brown just before I chose to sew her a block with chicken drumsticks and eggs, which is all brown.
Pfffffft to Clair, I say.

Well, the first pic is a block I received from Vicki...apparently she thinks I like Souths...no idea what could have put that in her mind.

The WANKE hand cream block is from Clair (in advance) and refers to my first ever blog where I confessed to have 9 types of hand cream in my bedside drawer. Still do.
Make of that what you will.

The next pic is the whole lot so far.
Not one stitch done by me - except that border of Vicki's I had to fix up, and the seams of course.

It's amazing to see so many different ideas and styles side by side, and even more incredible that they look good together.

Down the bottom left there is a section that my Aunty Kitty contributed to.
I can pick her work a mile away. Technically perfect - strangely elegant yet naive cottagey stuff. She loved the idea of the swap and sent me a few for Xmas last year.

The centre piece is what started it all. Pretty good likeness of me too.
Originally, I had the idea to do a banner with all of us on it, that we could hang out the front of Bron's place, warning passers by that our group was in session.
But legally I think that puts us in a difficult position, like warning people of a vicious dog...

The last pic, is one that I received recently, from Vicki I believe (hooray for leopard skin), and it has all of our names on it.

I have no idea at all what I will ever use this thing for. Too big for a wall hanging, too encrusted with beads and buttons for a table cloth, too out there not to be displayed.

Maybe I'll use it on my sewing table.

Delicious mock Anglicans!

Finally I own a recipe for delicious mock chicken.
Finally! And after all these years of running a household without one.
tsk tsk tsk
How did I do it?
Anyway, things have been set right now.

Mock chicken has long commanded instant hilarity in our house.
Well, at least since Jeff and I went into town one day and encountered vegan protesters (my personal favourite) outside KFC at Town Hall handing out literature demanding that KFC stop killing tortured baby chickens and use delicious mock chicken instead.

Knowing that my brother has a wee problem with KFC, and struggles to remain vegetarian because of it, we were kind enough to bring him home a range of mock chicken reading material.

After thanking us both profusely and sincerely by saying, "get fucked", "you're killing me!" and "you cunts", we were satisfied that we'd done the guy a solid and that he was genuinely grateful for our consideration and kindness.

But I've never had the opportunity to actually make him a dish of mock chicken, but soon all that will change and his karma will once again be acceptable.
What an excellent sister he has, lucky boy.

Yesterday, my friend Mark arrived at work toting a book he'd picked up from the scummy Parramatta Town Hall church stall on the way to the bus stop.
He seemed very proud of himself.

He produced from his bag, The Anglican Retirement Village Cookbook, a very fine specimen of Australian kitsch, no, make that Australian cuisine.
Hmmm, well I'll let you decide which one once I've walked you through a few of it's more notable pages.

And please don't think that I'm poking fun at the people who honestly believed that not only were these recipes fit to serve to their friends and families, but worthy of publication, no less.
And I say were and speak in the past tense, because I cannot believe, even if this book was published but a fortnight ago, that anyone who regularly ate this way is still breathing as I write this.

And remember kids, that's a professional opinion. ;O)
So there.

Well, what can I tell you?
I ogled this Mock Chicken recipe with sheer delight and disgust and immediately sent a text to both Jeff and Adrian, informing them of our very good fortune. A miracle, if you like.

I'm not going to bother with the method as I truly doubt anyone I know would plan on making this stuff, but the ingredients are as follows:

• butter (what, no margarine!?)
• onion
• fine white breadcrumbs (hard to believe that the kind of person who would use mock chicken would also eat white bread, isn't it?)
• grated cheese
• chopped tomato

So, essentially, what they're proposing you slap on your white bread sandwich is, well, white bread.
Clearly this person was a health nut and possibly even worked for both Diabetes Australia and The Coeliac Society at some stage.

Should I tell you that right above this recipe there is one for Savoury Ham Rolls?
What you need to do for these beauties is to spread some cream cheese onto some hyper-processed, square ham slices and then roll them up.
Dear God, why?

OK, so, at this point, I must mention that the first page of this gem fair near took my breath away.
It has a recipe for Chicken and Corn Soup.
After reading it over a couple of times, I asked Jeff what were two ingredients he would expect to find in such a soup.
He very rationally informed me that he would expect to encounter both chicken and corn in his bowl.
But no.
No chicken at all.
Perhaps this one was also submitted by the mock chicken person?

What is it with Anglicans and chicken? Do they secretly worship poultry and we haven't figured this out yet?
Well, I've got my eye on them.
My suspicions were later deepened by the discovery of a recipe for a Feather Cake towards the back of the book. ;O)

And as if none of this were bad enough, the SALAD section almost caused me to swallow my tongue. Given a choice of the two, I would certainly prefer my tongue to their salads.

Apparently Australian Anglicans believe that fried hard boiled eggs qualify as a salad. Umm, no. At least if I'd written that as an answer in a nutrition exam, I'm sure I would have been marked down for it. Don't you think so?

Nevermind. God love the Anglicans!

But you just have to get a load of this recipe for Egg Cutlets.

What they would like you to do, is to chop up hard boiled eggs, with milk, curry powder, butter and flour and then squish them into little cholesterol like balls and deep fry them.
But the fun doesn't end there... they actually suggest that you serve them with bacon for Sunday night tea.
Might be an idea to phone the ambulance just before you sit down to eat this though, there might be traffic.

Now, a couple of things I do know about old school, British descendant Aussie cuisine... if they give it a fancy name, it's going to be gross.
Times ten if that name includes any French.
Also, if they're going to flavour something, it'll be with curry powder or ham.
And wherever possible, your ingredients must come from a tin.

Of course, the truth is, they've got no idea.
White Australia just doesn't know how to eat. They just don't. The poor bastards think that bland is a flavour.

OK, onward and upward.

Pear or Peaches Au Fromage.
As I have already mentioned, the fancy name alerted me to probable disaster.
You'll need tinned fruit, cream cheese, milk, gherkins, onion, capers and olives....
No, I'm perfectly serious, that's what it says.

And right underneath it, there is a recipe for Smoked Oyster Salad, perhaps just to divert your attention and horror away from the above recipe.
For this one, you'll be wanting rice, curry powder (told you so), French dressing (anything French is perceived as fancy by elderly Aussies), celery, smoked oysters, shallots and capsicum.
And to really do this one justice, you must garnish it with parsley.
Scrumptious I'm sure.
Certainly a conversation starter.
A bathroom filler too.

Honestly. There really is a recipe for Sour Cream Salad on page 15. There is!
Probably no-one is surprised by now though.

But, maybe I can still impress you with the Russian Potato Salad?
To make this exotic number, you will need 3 tins (they come in tins?!) of potatoes... which suggests to me that it may have been a royal recipe at one stage.
Furthermore, and I shit you not, they actually tell you to add a little caviar if you can afford it.
But who knows, maybe shelling out for those tins of potatoes has blown the budget?
Cripes.

Naturally, there is a recipe for Tuna Casserole that uses cornflakes in it.
Cornflakes...in your dinner...on purpose!

Not too far from this, there is something called Pineapple Chops.
Now, at least one of you may think that this is a good idea, but if I told you that they're talking pork and that they've included mixed dried fruit and raw rice... well, not so funny now, is it?

And I'll tell you something else that isn't funny, and that's the Ham and Cheese Au Gratin recipe.
Once again, the fancy name suggested to me that this was likely to be of interest to me.
Damn it's boring being right all the time!
From what I can determine, au gratin simply means this is so bad that I must cover it with a lot of cheese in order to draw attention away from the other ingredients.

I think this recipe is even more of a trial to my sensibilities than the mock chicken was.
I'm trying to imagine anyone not living in a caravan or trailer while they're eating this, but I'm having little success.
See how you go.

First you make a full loaf of heavily margarined white bread ham sandwiches, and then you cut the crusts off.
Surely they're not attempting to make this dish look posh by cutting the crusts off?
Then you roll your sandwiches up (can you believe there are 2 recipes in the world that call for such nutritional delinquency?) , put them in a baking dish and cover with beaten sour cream and egg.
Naturally you'll need to cover your ham sandwiches with plenty of cheese before you would bake them in the oven. OMG baked ham sandwiches.
You need always to ensure that you cram as much saturated fat into a meal as is possible. Anything less is slovenly housekeeping and will make the baby Jesus cry.
Well, it doesn't actually say that, but it's implied.

I cannot neglect the Orange Pudding, whose ingredients are as follows: white bread, orange juice (but I suppose Tang would do), sugar and water.

How can I end before mentioning that very scary recipe for Wine Tonic?
But of course, I can't.
Just how sick must you be in order to wish to consume something that contains malt, port, bovril and Fisher's Phospherine?
If you don't know what Phospherine is, it's an emulsion of yukky, gritty fish liver oil liquid. Bovril of course being something like liquid vegemite.

Hey, wait a minute... anyone else starting to think these guys are taking the piss?
Are Anglicans known for their sense of humour?
They might be. They've hidden their chicken worshipping all these years.
Maybe they're just trying to kill off non-Anglican Australia with their cooking, in an evil bid to take over the world, or at least the Hillsong facilities?
Maybe they secretly own the patent for Diaformin, plus all the statin (anti-cholesterol) drugs and are seeking to increase their profit margin.

hmmm... I'm starting to like Anglicans....delicious mock Anglicans.

Progress report - Dad's Schimpf quilt.

What follows is a progress report on the quilt I'm making for Daddy's 70th birthday, which will be on the 31st of December.
So far it's title will either be That Fucking Quilt, Schimpf, or if I'm suddenly feeling horrifically racist by the year's end, The Yellow Peril.

The Yellow Peril was a 1970's quirky jigsaw puzzle that had no map, 1000 pieces which were all the same shade of yellow, was circular and as if all of that were not nasty enough, it was saddled with a rather vile and racist name, the significance of which really only dawned on me as I was sewing today.
Yuk.
The 1970's WTF?

Anyway, so I'm thinking that I won't be calling it that...


The manufacturer all but dared people to finish it and rewarded them with a certificate in exchange for photographic evidence upon completion.

Somewhere, buried beneath a million other ghastly 1970's snaps, we have said photograph. Right next to it is my dad, looking really, really tired.

But as my family has always considered it proof that my father has some sort of jigsaw OCD, we thought it best not to send it to any sort of authorities, even the jigsaw bigots.

And rightly so.

Dad has always enjoyed (and loathed) a good jigsaw.
It's something we were able to share as I was growing up. Just watching how his mind worked was fascinating to me.
Laborious, logical, methodical, compulsive, yet joyous at his task.
And stamina! Fuck me dead this guy's machine.

I used to love it when we'd do a puzzle together during summer. With the cricket day/night match on TV, fresh fruit, leftover Xmas biscuits and a cup of tea, we'd sit hunched up for hours as Dad methodically sorted the pieces according to differences I had never noticed in them. And, he turned them all over before proceeding. Who does that?!

During all of this, he would complain strenuously to me about how much he hated jigsaws, sing the occasional silly song and punctuate any other silence with, "...bowled him!" or "...bullshit!" if he happened to glance up at the cricket.

Eventually, I would pack it in for the night - probably due to a cat who was sleeping in the puzzle box lid that I was using, or worse still, on the sorted pieces themselves.
Dad would exclaim, "...bloody pussing katzens!" and "...shit!" whenever he noticed such feline misdeeds, but I never once recall him actually moving a cat. I do remember him shifting his own seat though. Perhaps this was simply a coincidence though. ;O)

In the wee hours of the morning...you know, the wee hours... when I'd stumble out to pee, there would still be the shape of this diligent creature, moving somewhat slower perhaps, but nevertheless, still absorbed in his work of finding that three legged piece with the crooked leg.

When he realised it was me geistering (ghosting/wandering) around rather than Adrian (no jigsaw puzzle lightweight himself, although not inclined to procure them), he'd yell out, "...shit, Simone, shit, what are you doing to me? Shit! This is awful."

And so it was awful, I guess.
But not to me, I always found it reassuring to recognise so many aspects of my own personality in my father. I childishly hoped I'd be able to keep them as I matured and expand upon them. I like to think I've done just that too.
I recently overheard Dad remarking to a friend that yes, his daughter looks like him, but that more importantly, "...she thinks like me."
Best compliment I've ever received. Certainly the only one I can quote.

So, in addition to the jigsaw component of the quilt, I'm planning on (probably) bordering it with two plain yellow borders that I plan on doing various stitcheries on, plus one with a printed fabric.

The first border will have the prose from a William Wordsworth poem about daffodils that Dad used to read to me at bedtime rather than fairy tales.


I wander'd lonely as a cloud... *sigh *

I love it, but to this very day, it does make me very tired.
Just call me Pavlov's dog.

Then a border of daffodil fabric.
Daffodils have a special significance in our family.
Apart from the nightly poetry readings, my mother adored them. When she died, we chose a headstone with daffodils on it for her.
Also, daffodils represent the fight against breast cancer and are in bloom during August and September the months of Mum's birthday as well as the anniversary of her death.

Finally, I'm doing a larger plain yellow border that will have all of Dad's favourite swear words on it. Well, not just his obscenities, but his silly words as well.
I'm even including the Yugoslav word for c*@&.
A family fave.
Plus his new favourite, which is taken from his second wife, Vivien, a gorgeous Maltese lady...Ma-donna!

So far we have:

• Ma-donna
• schimpf (meaning to go crook on or berate)
• pitchka (C@#& in Yugoslav)
• pfuitsch (Dad/German hybrid for yuk)
• verschlagen (from MAD magazine - I thought for years that it was Yugo)
• schmutz (Dad/German hybrid meaning to make a pig of yourself)
• goodie gums (Eric for lollies and chocolate)
• yebem te sunse (motherfucker - Yugo)
• verflixt noch mal ( Dad/German hybrid meaning damn or for god's sake - sort of)
• umdrehen (German for turn around - what he used to say when we were little kids and he'd towel dry us after a bath)
• compulsories (referring to Vitamin C tablets which he insisted we took...prescribing vitamins is genetic?)
• extra wurst (mostly German - meaning a food bonus or treat)
• hops (a command he developed for our dog, Holly, so she would jump over stuff thus saving him time and trouble)
• a good cleansing panic (Holly was a Doberman cross Rottweiler, but was a sooky nervous Piscean dog who would freak out with monotonous regularity, in fact, she would panic on command too - Dad thought it was good for her)
• sugar, scheissen, shit! (this quintessential Dadism begins with an attempt to be reasonable, but quickly gives way to common sense)
• runter! ( German for get down - often heard and ignored by cats)
• yumich ( NFI from whence this comes) it means something delicious
  
• 14-14 (his favourite football score - who has fave score? FFS what a weirdo)
• and finally, my contribution as a 6 year old...bernarner (I was asked to spell banana, and sounded it out, with what I still maintain was good success...Dad still belly laughs at this regularly, in fact I've never seen him eat a bernarner without giggling)

So, there it is. My masterpiece.
I have no concerns about littering a perfectly good quilt with obscenities because, eventually, I shall inherit it anyhow, and I like it.

When I told Viv of my idea, she pissed herself laughing and then said in all seriousness, ..."but not bright yellow, buttercup yellow."
So I'm guessing that the thought of having Yugoslavian obscenities draped across her lounge is of little concern to her so long as the colour tones in with the curtains.
And with little wonder.
Viv's surely heard it all by now, so I guess nothing I can stitch onto this quilt will come as a surprise to her. :O)
I'll try though.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..

Evolution.

Evolution.

I wonder whether it only happens to those who believe in it.
Like wishing on a star, voodoo and reverse parking.

It seems to me that this fad is passing entire families and in some cases, even whole suburbs by completely.

I don't know about you, but I'm perfectly certain that I would have been somewhat happier living in a world where survival of the least smelly stood alongside survival of the fittest as one of evolution's basic requirements.
Mother Nature dropped the ball on that one.

In fact, I would go so far as to include the following on my evolution wish list.

• survival of the least likely to encourage or participate in breakfast radio
• survival of the least likely to place individual pieces of fruit in a plastic bag prior to purchase
• survival of the least likely to ride a bicycle on a main road &/or during peak hour
  
• survival of the least likely to whistle
• survival of the least likely to wear strong aftershave or perfume
• survival of the least likely to holiday in 3rd world countries and indulge fantasies of wealth and status at the expense of locals
  
• survival of the least likely to invite you to amateur theatre
• survival of the least likely to wear those long glittery toxic trailer nails that habour several hundred kinds of faecal bacteria beneath them
  
• survival of the least likely to name a child Jaydon or anything-Lee (my faves so far are Sara-Lee and Shandi-Lee)
  
• survival of the least likely to chant, "Roo-sters!"
• survival of the least likely to wear thongs (flip flops) with winter clothing
• survival of the least likely to have chicken nuggets in the freezer
• survival of the least likely to eat with their mouth open
  

But, it's not all bad.
I have another list that may make me seem more tolerant.

• survival of the most likely to wash regularly
• survival of the most likely to read a book
  
• survival of the most likely to carry a pen and an umbrella (both are necessary to win my respect)
  

That's about it though.

And I'm not about to recant any of that upon my death bed.

Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.

Serious stuff.

People, something has happened within my family of a most serious and alarming nature.

One who walks among us has made a claim, which if true, will shortly see me blogging in a state of humiliated contrition.

So earnest is my desire to witness this travesty for myself, that I intend to rise far earlier than is usually necessary come Friday.
This will allow me to complete my jobs if plenty of time in order to film said spectacle from a cosy distance.

My anguish as I type this is quite extreme, I can assure you.
But fear not, I am woman and I shall endure.

It cannot be true. It must not.