The Music Of The Night

In the interest of saving time and the prospect of stirring up maximum jealousy, this is going to be straightforward.

I went to watch Phantom Of The Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre in London's west end on Saturday night. I cried through most of it. I sang the whole way home. I am still singing 3 days later.

The fruits of my labour are starting to ripen and damn it feels good (danananananana) I knew that it would (danananananana).

Step Aside Gordon Ramsey...

Well it's official. I'm leaving.

The Mr and Mrs, for all their slave driving faults, have actually been really sweet me. In light of my imminent departure, they said they'd miss me TERRAHBLY and wished they could keep me on as their personal chef. No, i swear. Maybe it's true - taste IS one of the first things to go?! I must admit though, i really have been showing off and half the reason i was so relieved to be leaving, was that i'd completely exhausted my list of "FPCD's" (fail proof culinary delights) and would have been screwed had they made me stay a day longer!

Probably picking up on this, intelligent, decorated people that they are, the old ducks threw me a curve ball - probably another of their little (heehee) 'tests'. Seeing as i was no longer going to be around, they'd simply loooove it if i whipped up a little something or two for their freezer, for them to enjoy once i'm gone. Could you, said she, would you said he, oh fuck said me.
Now please believe me when i say i shat myself at that point. Right there in the middle of breakfast, half way between the reaching for the sweetner and plunging my coffee, i shat myself.

Needless to say, once i'd stopped hyperventilating and they'd both buggered off to do their morning business, yours truly had a little squizz in the cupboards to see what she could see. I had this little realisation, courtesy of brother dearest who was immediately sms'd for help, which made a hell of a lot of sense: i'm not going to be around when they eat the bloody thing so i might as well fling open the fridge, throw whatever i see into a pot, chuck it in the freezer, grab my money and run like hell. So that's exactly what i did, and god did it taste good. No, seriously. May I present the sexiest, most delicious (no SERIOUSLY) 'casserole' to have ever been dreamed into creation. It doesn't have a name yet but i'm open to suggestion.

2 chicken breasts chopped into fancy bits
handful fresh black cherries
50g chopped walnuts
small handful black olives
half a jar preserved red green and yellow peppers
4 tomatoes
1 cup chicken stock
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp mixed spice
2 bay leaves,
and finally...
an almighty dash of Pimm's!!!

Serve that on a bed of piping hot Couscous and sit back to wait for BBC Food to ring...

Hmmm, maybe O2 cut me off? Or there's no signal here? Oh come on goddamit, RING!

Little Miss Mavis Big Bucks

In the wake of my new found “International Domestic Goddess” status (thanks em) things are beginning to look as bright and sparkly as the hall mirror I polished yesterday. Hold onto your post-its people… she’s goin’ home.

Ok, so technically I’m not going home home. I’m just not going to be HERE anymore.
As I trudged wearily into the kitchen this morning, hoping to grab my cup of coffee and sneak out again without being noticed, just so I could have my morning constitutional, complete with nicotine and caffeine, I was pounced upon with rampant vigour by the Mr and Mrs.

Them: So, we’ve been thinking. And now, this may come as a bit of a shock, but we’ve decided that Mr H here is doing soooo much bettah and really doesn’t need a carer. We’ve been trying so hard to keep you occupied (Nooooo. Really?) but it’s become apparent that it’s quite a silly idea and we think it’s best if you leave on Saturday. It’s nothing personal whatsoever, and we have every intention of paying you for the full 14 days…

I’m not too sure what they said after that – all I had ringing in my ears was ‘leave on Saturday’, ‘paying you for the full 14 days’ and the washing machine beeping to let me know my 73rd load of laundry was ready for collection. Mavis became, at that very second, the luckiest little toilet-scrubbing bitch on the face of the planet and she was loving every second of it! Now I must mention that, as with most things in this line of work, this isn’t set in stone just yet – we’re off to the cardiologist dude today who, if he knows what’s good for him, is going to declare miraculous health, which would in turn negate the necessity of my presence. I’m crossing my fingers and toes but can’t promise on the legs I’m afraid... And that’s for the lovelys in London town of course - Sis on you if you thought I was talking about doing the Geriatric Jig – the man’s heart is dodgy, Christ!

Mavis The Marvellous.

Yours truly seems to have landed herself in a bit of a spot. In fact, this spot is so ginormous and grotesque it makes all the big okes at Clearasil a little edgy. Allow me to elaborate.

So I arrived at this half-horse town full of the optimism of a paedophile in a playground, looking forward to utter-chilled-out-ness and stuuuufff. (How did we know this was coming?) So it turns out that gramps ain't exactly your average 'nappies and napthalene' old fogey, actually he's not even a gramp, but instead, a rather a spritely chap recovering from a little cardiac mishap, who doesn't really need or want me around. The wife, however, tends to disagree. There are no bed pans, chair lifts or crusty underpants with which to contend, and he is completely in charge of his own breakfast, lunch and pill cocktail every so often. In all honesty, i'm a little surplus to requirement.

Now this is where it starts to get fun. Instead of me doing the carerly thing and hanging around should he need me for anything (which we've already established he doesn't), wiping a sink here and preparing a meal there, they are terribly concerned that i'll be bored stiff. The conversation went a little something like this:

Them: I rather hope you won't be terrahbly booored.

Me (somewhat brightly): Um no, i'm sure i'll be alright thanks.

Them: Well here's a monster pile of killer laundry which needs ironing (I made up the scary adjectives), and the stairs could do with a vacuum, oh and the 5972 living rooms are in need of a dust - do make sure you do them thoroughly - and our room could also do with a once over. Oh could you iron all the sheets and pillow cases in the entire village as well? If it's not much trouble. Oh and one last thing, we've got a little test (heehee) to check how well you clean but we won't tell you what it is until you either pass or fail.

Me: Are you kidding me? Are you seriously goddam f*cking KIDDING me?!?!? (So i thought it, who cares.)

What i actually said was: SURE (big beam and all that crap.)

Well paint me brown and call me Mavis. DUMBASS - i don't know what came over me, i really don't. Maybe it was the fresh air and the Pimm's. Maybe i was just being a really f*cking stupid MORON. Either way, none of the above really falls under my job description - what they really need is a bloody Polish maid to live in and take care of the housework for a week or two.
I seriously couldn't be less charmed than if i multiplied into 3 sisters and went on a demon slaying expedition.

Now if you'll please excuse me, i'm off to inject myself with a pleasant mix of crack and Domestos and then burn myself on the iron for the umpteeth f*cking time today. F*ck f*ck f*ck. F*ck.

Oh by the way, they're actually really nice people. No, really.

What the FOX that?!

So i've officially been acquainted with a real live fox. Not those cute little fox 'n the hound type red fluffy kinds you see talking and smiling and cavorting in story books, bursting into song about how great the flowers and the rain are. No no, this one was a mangey, jackal-like mongrel, grey and bedraggled and most probably rabid (although i must admit i would have needed binoculars to check for a foaming mouth given the distance i maintained between predator and prey). No bloody WAYS are they all small and fluffy like poodles. They are nasty smelly scrofulous vermin that terrify the living shit out of me and make my evening Marlboro trips downstairs a living nightmare. How the bloody hell i'm going to survive my walks in the countryside when i'm on assignment god alone knows. Bugger the whole anti-hunting things here, i say call in the hounds, or failing that i'll need the sawn-off shotgun i have under my car seat back in SA. Fluffy better get the hell off my property. Run bitch run!!

Ka-CHING!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have our first job.

Got a call from The Agency today and it's all systems go for monday morning. A little country air never hurt anyone and this one sounds a little chilled so we should be cruising for a couple of weeks with any luck...

Couch Surfing 101

Surf's up people and despite the excitement of a reunion with the mates in good ol' London town, sleeping on floors (and the occasional nap over here and there;) ) can get to a point where it's just not fun anymore. Apart from feeling a bit like a freshly clipped toenail in a Caesar salad or a Bacon sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah, the tennis elbow one acquires from opening and closing a suitcase, the callouses forming on one's hands due to the absurd amounts of housework one does in an attempt to contribute in any small way possible, and the lower back pain from 10 nights on your standard Argos blue blow-up mattress, is enough to drive you and your poor housemates to drink. Make that 'walk you to drink' - Cars? Good god man, what is this of which you speak?! (Princess is not too chuffed with this whole public transport vibe by the way). Don't get me wrong, i am so eternally grateful for having a roof over my head, great food in my tummy and a bunch of very cool mates 24/7 who so don't seem to care that i'm becoming part of the furniture at all. Despite all this, you inevitably find yourself winding up your own arse, making yourself out, in your own head, as a real pain in the left buttock to everyone else around you. And so, in a guilty dwaal, the time to bugger off and blend into the carpet of another housefull of helpless victims will come. And on it goes.
The great thing is tho, couch surfing is a bit like the local bicycle - everyone's done it. So there's a lot of sympathy and understanding. And also a lot of carpet burn. Hey, you take the good with the bad.

Chavin' a right fab time, innit.

Welcome to England - the home of Coldplay, the breeding ground of colonialism, bastion of sheer bloody-mindedness, the land of plenty. Plenty of strikes, plenty of rain, plenty of people's sweaty pits dripping onto your iPod on the tube, and of course PLENTY of Chavs.

The 'Chav' (not sure what it's short for - although 'Council Housing Average Vuilgat' wouldn't go amiss) is an English phenomenon which i can't seem to grasp, and with which i have been told i harbour an unhealthy obsession. Now i have obsessions but they tend to be regular stuff, like turning the light switch on and off 7 times before i leave a room or drizzling my honey into my cereal in neat little 'z's every morning. That's pretty regular innit? Not a fuck i hear you say. Maybe all that therapy has been a waste of kleenex. I digress. So anyway, in a haze of burberry and prams, scraped back ponytails and milky white tractor tyres spewing forth from beneath short waisted puffer jackets, i tiptoe past bus stops (What do Chavs use as protection during sex? Bus shelters) and the stairs outside Centrecourt, clutching my bag as one would do on Strand street at rush hour, making sure not to make eye contact for fear of being politely asked, "whatha fook you lookin' ah?!". Its all a tad disconcerting and a little creepy but at the same time disgustingly fascinating. The novelty will soon wear off i'm told but until then i shall continue to be in awe of these beings who cannot be equated to any other culture on earth. Seeing is disbelieving.