The Rain It Raineth
Mumsy has buggered off again, which means no obsessive-compulsive running around the place cleaning everything up. And means I have to do it. Boooooooo.
I shouldn't even be avoiding the inevitable here because either I have sinus trouble or an epic case of eyestrain (I'm thinking the latter) but I'm a lazy bitch, so there.
At least I have a decent drying day for laundry, of which there is FAAAARRRRKING LOADS, on account of the recent soggy weather seeping through my bloody roof. Spent last weekend picking wet towels off the stairs and feeling relieved that I elected to give the Bestival a miss. All weekend Man was getting texts from friends who were having the worst time of their life sinking into the swamp that was Robin Hill.
Man's best friend, Derek the Viking, had rip-roaring fun trying to negotiate a sodden festival site with an emo teenage daughter in tow.
She wanted to go, desperately, and wouldn't be put off by the hideous weather. So they went. Five minutes out of the car she was moaning that her hair was going to get wet, and wouldn't wear a raincoat because it would ruin the look of her carefully thought out red and black stripey outfit. And she was going to attempt this sea of mud in the obligatory Converse-style sneakers with MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE and I LOVE GERARD WAY magic-markered all over the soles.
Naturally, being a teenage girl, she was not about to take Dad's advice and wear a pair of wellies. "I'm not wearing those! I'll look like a freak!"
Okay. Fine. So would she tie a pair of plastic bags over her shoes like everyone else was? God, no. That would just not be ~*~individual~*~ enough - all those people looked like total spazzes - did they not realise?
I was getting a running commentary on this fracas via text message and cracking up, since I've known said emo-teen since she was an adorable five year old. She's actually a really sweet kid, but like Kevin The Teenager she reserves all of her obnoxiousness for her parents. With anyone else she's as polite and pleasant a girl as you can wish for, but she is still a teenager.
Derek texted with "ADGAFKHAFKJAKJFBAD WHY WON'T SHE STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING STUPID TEENAGER?!!!" and amusement ensued. She's the eldest, you see. He's got two more daughters to go through this with.
Shoe issues aside, they all got into the swamp, which was allegedly so very swampy that Derek said he saw a woman squat down to wee in eighteen inches of mud and when she got up she left a perfect muff and arse print in the mud.
I don't know if it was considered to be as bad as that one infamous Glastonbury Festival which was so completely waterlogged that one of the stages actually sank, but apparently it was a right fucking washout. It doesn't look good for my chances of ever going camping at a festival. Mention camping to Man and he goes all DO NOT WANT and starts gibbering at the prospect of chemical toilets. I suppose it's handy that we have two major festivals on the Island every year and it means we can go without camping, but since REM there really hasn't been anyone else I'd pay that amount of money to see live. Not even the Sex Pistols. Sorry John.
Aaaaanyway - laundry. Meh. Hours of fucking fun. Spent yesterday cooking up home made meatballs flavoured with home made pesto made with home grown basil. And so I have decreed that my folksy home cookin' ways qualify me for the post of the UK's new Italian ambassador. Okay, so all my Italian comes from restaurant menus, the Godfather movies and operas and I've never been to Italy in my life, but I make my own pesto and I'M A WOMAN, DAMMIT. SO STOP BEING SO GODDAMN SEXIST!
You will need:
3oz of fresh basil leaves. Fresh basil is light, so that's a shitload of basil.
2oz of pine nut kernels
Clove of garlic, peeled and mashed
2oz of grated parmesan cheese
As much olive oil as it damn well takes.
In theory, what you do is chop the basil and then throw everything in the blender with a good glug of olive oil and blend away. And you're done.
In theory.
Unless you made the mistake of buying a blender that cries for its mummy every time you ask it to, you know, blend? So it entails a lot of poking around in the bottom of the blender trying to extricate the mulch of basil from the blades and adding increasing amounts of olive oil to make the stuff goopy enough to actually whirl around instead of sticking stubbornly in the middle and driving you completely fucking mad.
On the plus side, it freezes well.
You are now qualified to mediate diplomatic relations between your country of origin and Italy. Present your credentials and scream sexism if anyone says otherwise. (Protip - having a vagina helps with this one. I'm sorry, I don't know how you boys are going to work it, unless you do a Tootsie on those sexist bastards.)
I shouldn't even be avoiding the inevitable here because either I have sinus trouble or an epic case of eyestrain (I'm thinking the latter) but I'm a lazy bitch, so there.
At least I have a decent drying day for laundry, of which there is FAAAARRRRKING LOADS, on account of the recent soggy weather seeping through my bloody roof. Spent last weekend picking wet towels off the stairs and feeling relieved that I elected to give the Bestival a miss. All weekend Man was getting texts from friends who were having the worst time of their life sinking into the swamp that was Robin Hill.
Man's best friend, Derek the Viking, had rip-roaring fun trying to negotiate a sodden festival site with an emo teenage daughter in tow.
She wanted to go, desperately, and wouldn't be put off by the hideous weather. So they went. Five minutes out of the car she was moaning that her hair was going to get wet, and wouldn't wear a raincoat because it would ruin the look of her carefully thought out red and black stripey outfit. And she was going to attempt this sea of mud in the obligatory Converse-style sneakers with MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE and I LOVE GERARD WAY magic-markered all over the soles.
Naturally, being a teenage girl, she was not about to take Dad's advice and wear a pair of wellies. "I'm not wearing those! I'll look like a freak!"
Okay. Fine. So would she tie a pair of plastic bags over her shoes like everyone else was? God, no. That would just not be ~*~individual~*~ enough - all those people looked like total spazzes - did they not realise?
I was getting a running commentary on this fracas via text message and cracking up, since I've known said emo-teen since she was an adorable five year old. She's actually a really sweet kid, but like Kevin The Teenager she reserves all of her obnoxiousness for her parents. With anyone else she's as polite and pleasant a girl as you can wish for, but she is still a teenager.
Derek texted with "ADGAFKHAFKJAKJFBAD WHY WON'T SHE STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING STUPID TEENAGER?!!!" and amusement ensued. She's the eldest, you see. He's got two more daughters to go through this with.
Shoe issues aside, they all got into the swamp, which was allegedly so very swampy that Derek said he saw a woman squat down to wee in eighteen inches of mud and when she got up she left a perfect muff and arse print in the mud.
I don't know if it was considered to be as bad as that one infamous Glastonbury Festival which was so completely waterlogged that one of the stages actually sank, but apparently it was a right fucking washout. It doesn't look good for my chances of ever going camping at a festival. Mention camping to Man and he goes all DO NOT WANT and starts gibbering at the prospect of chemical toilets. I suppose it's handy that we have two major festivals on the Island every year and it means we can go without camping, but since REM there really hasn't been anyone else I'd pay that amount of money to see live. Not even the Sex Pistols. Sorry John.
Aaaaanyway - laundry. Meh. Hours of fucking fun. Spent yesterday cooking up home made meatballs flavoured with home made pesto made with home grown basil. And so I have decreed that my folksy home cookin' ways qualify me for the post of the UK's new Italian ambassador. Okay, so all my Italian comes from restaurant menus, the Godfather movies and operas and I've never been to Italy in my life, but I make my own pesto and I'M A WOMAN, DAMMIT. SO STOP BEING SO GODDAMN SEXIST!
You will need:
3oz of fresh basil leaves. Fresh basil is light, so that's a shitload of basil.
2oz of pine nut kernels
Clove of garlic, peeled and mashed
2oz of grated parmesan cheese
As much olive oil as it damn well takes.
In theory, what you do is chop the basil and then throw everything in the blender with a good glug of olive oil and blend away. And you're done.
In theory.
Unless you made the mistake of buying a blender that cries for its mummy every time you ask it to, you know, blend? So it entails a lot of poking around in the bottom of the blender trying to extricate the mulch of basil from the blades and adding increasing amounts of olive oil to make the stuff goopy enough to actually whirl around instead of sticking stubbornly in the middle and driving you completely fucking mad.
On the plus side, it freezes well.
You are now qualified to mediate diplomatic relations between your country of origin and Italy. Present your credentials and scream sexism if anyone says otherwise. (Protip - having a vagina helps with this one. I'm sorry, I don't know how you boys are going to work it, unless you do a Tootsie on those sexist bastards.)