Started to feel a bit better today (thanks for asking). I don’t feel totally back to normal, but I was certainly well enough to take to the canals for a 20 mile bike ride, and abuse my temperamental belly with some delicious “Cadbury’s Creme Egg” ice cream. I didn’t get any Easter eggs, so this themed ice-cream was the closest thing to a taste of resurrected Christ this year (though I bet Deidre Barlow would have ensured my cupboards were well furnished with such seasonal treats). Nevertheless I cannot recommend Creme Egg ice cream enough. It is second only to the new Bournville bars with bits of orange peel stuck in them; which I can assure you taste a lot better than language has allowed me to describe here. Don’t get me wrong, I also really like regular Bournvilles, but generally find myself to be sated after 4 squares. With the orange stuff, I can easily devour more than that – sometimes even as much as 6 or 7 squares in a single sitting! I’m not joking either. I probably need to pull the reigns in a bit before I find myself on the rocky path to a real-life Alan Partridge-esque breakdown.
After the epic bike ride, I awarded myself with a pub lunch. I opted for “Hunter’s Chicken” - a chicken wrapped in slices of bacon. I am unsure as to why a chicken wrapped in bacon is called Hunter’s Chicken. Since the hunting of meat is the very cornerstone of the hunter’s profession, you’d think that if they are going out for a meal they’d probably prefer to try something a bit different, maybe a nice salmon fishcake or something.
Hunter’s chicken... What sort of hunter just goes after standard farmyard animals? Surely farmers already have that corner of the market sewn up? A real hunter worth his salt should present something more daring, like deer steak wrapped in a coat of bear’s fu
Sat 11th April 2009
Ever since I started my current job, I have not had a single day off through sickness. I have maintained this achievement through four years of employment. And this track record currently shows no signs of slowing either. Mainly cos I only seem to be ill when I am off work anyway. Like today. I am lying bed-bound with the turmoil-ridden stomach which broke out last night.
It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.
It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.
It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.
It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.
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