Sunday, 22 November 2009

Unexpected surprises

I've had a quiet weekend. Mr Manbag has been away so I spent Saturday night and most of Sunday on my own. It's been a quiet delight, though. I pootled around, not worried about anyone else's timetable. I had a pot of tea in bed while reading a book, did a spot of shopping and loafed around reading the papers. So lots of tea and reading, really.

But the best thing is getting an email from someone I love spending time with saying that there had been a conversation about going to New York and did I fancy it. Do I ever! And the best thing is because there'll be three of us IT MIGHT ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

I am very excited about this. I've never been to Noo Yoik. Cripes, I've never ever been to the U States of A. And we've talked about NY for the past few weeks figuratively. We do that a lot. But having someone else coming means that hotels will be booked, flights will be sorted and fun will be had. I just know it.

And now we just need to decide when...

Thursday, 19 November 2009

I was wrong

Mr Manbag very probably has the 'flu.

I awoke this morning to find a hot bodied Mr Manbag curled around me claiming he was cold whilst maintaining the temperature of some kind of thermo-nuclear hot thing on a hot day in Hotland. At the same time he had cold feet and two layers of blanket over and above the duvet. Ah. A fever.

Right now he's asleep on the sofa underneath the warmest or warm blankets (from Witney, home of the blanket). We had take out from Wagamama (oh Yaki Soba!) to save us cooking and then I left the room to make him a cuppa to find upon my return that he was asleep.

Tomorrow he is "working from home". Probably best.

Free Hugs

Because it made me smile.



Thanks to Past Imperfect

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

Feed a cold

Mr Manbag is ill. I know how ill he is because I had the very same "illness" but a week ago. His throat is sore, his head feels stuffy and he coughs repeatedly. At some point he will be all phlegmy and spend a large part of his morning shower ****** ********* and ***********. Not nice.

But he is a man. And the cliches are true.

He was on the phone to his friend Deidre ("our" friend really, but protocol states that because she was his friend first she stays in his little book of friends) talking about his illness. Because that's what men do. Women brush it off and say "oh it's nothing. Just a bit of a cold". Men are dying.

"It's flu", he says, "but Baglady says it is not. In the old days when people were this ill it was flu. But these days if a man gets the flu it is just man flu".

I roll my eyes and mutter something about a fever and not being able to get out of bed for two or three days. I am tempted to remind him of the three days I spent in bed when we had a holiday cottage booked with chums for New Year. 3 days when everyone else is drinking and playing games and sitting round a proper inglenook fireplace desperately trying to light the thing (turns out what you need is cough medicine infused snot soaked tissues. They burn green).

However, I am ever the dutiful wife. I tell Mr Manbag that he is poorly and so we will have an early night. We will take ourselves to bed with a cup of tea, read books and generally enjoy the feeling of being tucked up (yes, tucked up) nice and early. Mr Manbag firmly believes in the saying "feed a cold, feed a fever" so is demanding chocolate in bed.

I suppose I can make some concessions.

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Train of thought

Picture the scene. Me and Mr Manbag are on a train. We've made a bit of a dash for it and spent an age wandering along the carriages to find a seat together. We finally find somewhere, stow our baggage and slump into our seats.

The train slowly starts to glide towards London.

The man diagonally across the aisle from me falls asleep. His head slumped back and to the side, his mouth wide open ready to catch a passing fly.

Then I notice a smell. It's ripe. And old. Very old. The smell of a never washed coat or greasy hair or the odour of neglect.

I look around me trying to find the source. To my right a smartly dressed black man, now also catching flies. Behind me a group of foreign travellers chattering away at 100 miles an hour in a language I can't even recognise, let alone speak. To me it sounds sort of Sengalese - the kind of part African part French lilt of Youssou N'dour. But they look more like they are from some far away island somewhere like Indonesia. And they look clean and smart. It's not them.

Then across the aisle I see her. At first glance she looks "normal". But then I see her shoes are scuffed and tired. Her coat is grubby around the edges. The cuffs dark from years of use. Her blouse has a few dark stains on the front from a spilt coffee, perhaps, or a spot of juice. And then her hair. If I was 3 or 4 years old I would think she was a witch. Her hair is grey and wiry and wildly unkempt.

I wonder if she works in an office where her colleagues whisper through their fingers about the smell. If she keeps her job because she is excellent and efficient and knowledgeable, despite her unsavoury appearance. If she knows what people think but doesn't care or if she's oblivious to our norms, carrying on her life without knowing.

When she leaves the train I am glad for the cool breeze that momentarily blows through the carriage, even though I am cold.

As the train marches on through the evening I wonder where she's going as she heads off in to the cold and dark.

Monday, 16 November 2009

With thanks to all the little people

No, silly, not Oompa Loompas. Or Munchkins. Or any other group of inappropriately dressed midgets vertically challenged but in no way lesser than us "tall" people.

I've won a prize! With thanks to Esmerelda for passing on the honour of the dubiously titled "I Shoulda Been A Stripper Award". So I'd like to thank all the little people for making it possible for me to reach such lofty heights. I could never have achieved so much if it weren't for all of the little voices in my head! I'd like to thank you all, including the one that makes me buy bags, the one that makes me eat cake and the one that occasionally tells me to kill people. An award like this just goes to show that last voice that it is WRONG. They're not all out to get me. At least for now.



So, what does this prestigious award mean?

These are the rules...

a) Post the award. Check. That was easy.

b) List seven personality traits, as evidenced by your blog.

Right. Okay. Am choc full of personality so how hard can this be? *thinks*. Bear with me. I'll get there.

1. Thoughtful. I buy great presents for the people I love. Simple as. And if I buy you a present you don't like? I guess I just don't love you that much.

2. Loud. I try and tell myself that I am a civilised grown up. That I am sophisticated and smart. But I know I am loud. I sing in shops. This weekend it was a deli in Dulwich that had "Barcelona" by Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballet playing on the radio. I could not help myself. Even if I can't reach the top notes right now because of this pesky cold. I know that I am outspoken and sometimes find it hard to rein myself in at work.

3. Insecure. Aren't we all? Isn't that one of the reasons why we blog?

4. Easily led. Sparkly windows displays, special offers and finite stocks will tempt me to buy more than it ought to. And having Mr Manbag egging me on just makes me reach for the plastic. Hence the Bag Lady tag.

5. Lazy. I just am. The only reason I am good at my job is because I try to find quicker, easier, better ways of doing things. I love puzzles and figuring out the right way to do things. Sometimes this means I don't post as often as I should because I don't feel inspired or I just spend the evening vegging on the sofa.

6. Vain. I am overweight and I know my skin isn't great. I have some of the worst bad hair days that I know of (especially this weekend just gone which has some of the worst frizz causing weather know to man. And woman). But it's still important to me to be pretty. I always manage to wear a bit of mascara and blusher when I go out and I love bright eyeshadow. I am very fussy about the pictures of me that get out there because the wrong angle makes me look baaaad. So the picture of me that I have on my blog is very, very flattering. I do not look like that in the flesh. But I do in my head.

7. Bitchy. I love having a bitch. This is another trait that I ease back on in the office. It kind of comes with the territory. I hate that at work I essentially have to be a bit two faced. Be nice to people that I wouldn't have anything to do with socially. And it's hard for me to sometimes button my lip before bitching about people to colleagues who might not see things quite my way. I keep buying lottery tickets because the politics of work really get on my nerves.

c) Give the award to 7 others with notable personalities and let them know.

This is tricky. Some of the bloggers I'd choose to pass this award on to I know won't pass it on. I appreciate that if everyone who received it passed it on it the whole blogosphere would have it within a few weeks. Also a lot of bloggers I read simply wouldn't have a clue who I am and would think that an award from a complete stranger would be akin to stalking. So I am only going to post 5 names. Five bloggers who I think might just go for it:


The perfect Lou Lou
The gorgeous Eden Rose
The batty Ally
The talented Miss Buckle
The glamorous Shakespeare and Stilettos

Right. That will be all. I look forward to reading your posts ladies. If you do (but I won't hold it against you if you don't).

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

The night time is the right time

I have made a decision. Tonight is one of those nights when Mr Manbag is out. And I have made a decision. I will not just let this night drift away from me in a haze of rum and Bejewelled (which I am so addicted to at the moment it is giving me headaches).

I have already done the mountain of washing up. I might even put a load of clothes washing in seeing as we're away this weekend and probably have no clean undercrackers. But for now I shall walk in to town, get a Yaki Soba, some Percy Pigs and something from Hotel Chocolat (to keep my options open. Not both to eat. I am greedy but not quite that greedy*) and then I shall watch a film from our massive box of DVDs (which sits, rather incongruously under our dining table, pretending to hide). I think it will be I've Loved You So Long", a French film starring our own Kristin Scott Thomas.

Either that or something with exploding helicopters and lots of CGI. It could go either way.



*Sometimes I am. By the time 11 o'clock comes round they might all be eaten. This is not my intention right at this moment

Monday, 9 November 2009

Home alone (except without the comedy burglars)

This week promises to be a quiet week. Mr Manbag is out for two nights on the trot. Normally I'd arrange to see friends. Maybe go to the cinema. Perhaps a meal and some drinks.

But this week I feel like winter is creeping in. I feel like I should be hibernating. Wrapped up in blankets and cardigans and the like (maybe even a slanket). Toasty and warm and ready to wait it out until spring (albeit without sticks up my bottom. I don't think we suffer much from ants round here).

I know that I will plan to watch some DVDs. There will almost definitely be some Percy Pigs or something fruity from Hotel Chocolat (even if they've stopped stocking my favourite - the drunken raspberry). I'll have ambitions to make long overdue phonecalls. To get some cleaning done, a light touch of laundry. I'll even consider putting some nice nail varnish on my much neglected toenails, even though they don't see daylight at the moment.

Of course I know what will really happen is that I will get home from work, grab a yaki soba from Wagamama or something vaguely ready meal-y. Then I will veg in front of the telly, netbook (currently with weirdly misfunctioning screen, but that's another matter) on lap with a rum and coke to hand. And normally I would consider this a waste of a lone evening. But if I do it over and over again does that maybe mean that's what I want to do?

Sunday, 8 November 2009

I am struck

Watching the telly this evening I am struck by the parade of servicemen and women which is showing right now. Hundreds of magnificent looking chaps and ladies with a variety of uniforms, medals, hats and moustaches march together past the Cenotaph. Kilts and berets, walking sticks and wheelchairs and thousands of beautiful bright red poppies.

I have never before paid much attention to Remembrance Sunday. Of course I bought a poppy. And of course I paid my respects with a moment or two of silence. But I have never given much thought to what it means to fight for your country, to lose your friends, to see things that you can never forget and to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.

With the news this week of so many lost fighting in Afghanistan and the recent death of Harry Patch the plight of our soldiers is very much at the forefront of the mind of the nation. I don't think I've seen so many poppies on the lapels of strangers before.


Mr Manbag calls me Connie Hardbitch for my lack of empathy with others. For my sometimes cold demeanour. But I watch the parade of rightly proud soldiers and widows and I find myself moved.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Make room for the mushrooms

*warning. Do not read this post if you are hungry*

Friday is always a tricky night. Sure, we have food in the fridge. But as the working week draws to a close neither Mr Manbag nor I have the energy to cook it. Plus there are the usual after work Friday night drinks to attend to which would mean that we wouldn’t get home until it’s too late to start cooking. So we go for drinks and decide to eat out. We even decide where to go – we’re going to got to LSQ2, of disastrous breakfast fame. Give them another chance.

LSQ2 is a really nice looking restaurant. There’s a leather banquette down one side with buttons coloured to match the massive lampshades that are in various shades of purple and pink. It’s a nice space. We haven’t booked so we take a seat in the bar waiting for a table to be free.

We wait. Annoyingly we can see several empty tables and the staff seem to be on a mission to ignore us – no chance of some drinks, nibbles or even a copy of the menu while we’re waiting. We watch the other customers. Aside from being distracted by a bloke with his shirt unbuttoned far too far for his age, medallion glinting against his chest, hair combed forward to hide his male pattern baldness we notice that quite a few customers aren’t paying at their table – they’re taking their bills to the bar to pay. And there are people sat with menus when we arrived that are still sat with them 10 minutes later. It would seem that did we manage to get a table here it would be a long time before we got served. So we take our voucher for a free bottle of wine and decide to go elsewhere.

After a brief bit of bickering we decide to go to Pepe Sale, a local and independent Sardinian restaurant. It is in the mankiest part of town. On the side of the ugly Broad Street Mall with the 70’s multi-storey car park above, the 99p store and super-ugly Civic Centre just around the corner. Even the dining area itself is a funny little place, like an office that has been converted in to a restaurant. As ever, though, the welcome is warm. We are fairly regular visitors, coming for a touch of real Italian food (as opposed to the food from the glut of chain Italians that Reading is plagued by) every couple of months. Marco talks us through the specials (hand-picked mushrooms sauteed with garlic and herbs, home-made spaghetti with clams, chillies and tomatoes) pours our favourite wine and leaves us to think. When he returns I mention how lovely the pasta they used to do (creamy sauce, loads of mushrooms and some kind of spaghetti that Mr Manbag insists were noodles) was. He says that the kitchen can make it for me. For little old me! So that means I need to change my starter (from the wild mushrooms). Marco suggests some pan fried goat’s cheese with griddled courgettes and some balsamic glaze. It sounds delicious. I order it.

After Marco walks away and we’re tucking in to the big basket of Sardinian flatbread (wafer thin unleavened bread baked with salt, olive oil and rosemary) when Mr Manbag says “so you’ve basically ordered food that isn’t on the menu”. Indeed I have. We are such a part of the clientele here that we go off off piste, or at least I do. Not just off the set menu (a.k.a. off piste) but off the menu altogether. I feel smug.

I feel even smugger when my starter comes. A delicious round of cheese which has been cooked until the outside is crispy and sweet (with a touch or garlic. Garlic oil, maybe?) and it goes wonderfully well with the courgettes and balsamic. Gorgeous.

But that is nothing. When my main arrives I am bowled over. Home-made tagliatelle, wild mushrooms of all shapes and sizes, a dollop or two of cream, a generous helping of garlic, a sprinkling of parsley and just a touch of freshly ground black pepper, added by Marco himself. He proudly tells us that the mushrooms were picked by him. I ask what one of the wide white slices of ‘shroom is. He offers to show us. And of course we say yes.

He returns with a basket of mushrooms, all different shapes and sizes, covered by a napkin like some special secret gift. My white slice is from the stalk of a humungous beast of a mushroom. It must be 6 or 7 inches wide and about that tall. The stalk is over an inch thick, creamy and white and tasty (it seems especially good at soaking up the garlic and cream flavours). He handles each mushroom with care and tells us “this one is found under oak" and then he picks up another, smaller mushroom "and this one I find under pine trees”. He tells us how he enjoys going out picking them by hand. Just him and his dog. I can even picture it in my mind (the dog in my imagination is a terrier, wiry and small). He covers the mushrooms back up , carefully laying the napkin shroud across their truffly bodies, and leaves us to enjoy our meal.

Eventually I am replete. I can eat no more. Each mouthful is a mix of pleasure and pain – pleasure at the taste but pain at the increased feeling of stuffedness. I pass my plate over to Mr Manbag, who had a much more compact and less carbohydrate based main than me and he duly does his duty. And complains that I always order better than he does. Whilst troughing the rest of my food.

As we stroll back across town, arm in arm, distended bellies bouncing away, we decide that we should eat there more often. That LSQ2 probably doesn’t warrant another try. That wild mushrooms are really rather nice. That it’s lovely to feel special and eat things that aren’t on the menu. And that all is right with the world.