Day off yesterday.
It's surprising how tiring lying in bed can be. Just told chief nurse (and wife) how tired I get in the afternoons, to which she replied (slightly tersely after another sleepless night), "No change there, then". Anyway, had lots to do. Grand National and Man Utd in semi final of the Cup, busy day. Kiwi's giving South Africa a good pasting in the Caribbean, which is always satisfying. They really are a miserable bunch, the jarpies. It's as if they really can't understand how anyone can be better than them at anything. Better be careful, don't want to upset too many people when the blog goes worldwide.
Anyway, Sunday now, the day of rest. Just like any other, then. Enforced rest is strangely easy, once you get used to it. I mean, when was the last time I just stayed in bed on a Sunday morning? The truth is that even if I tried to, it wouldn't be as easy as you might think. Suppose chief nurse said, "Darling, I'll do everything today, you stay in bed, watch the cricket and footie, read a book, tap away at your blog, sleep, whatever. I'll look after the kids and bring you anything you want; you don't even have to get out of bed for a wee (more of which later). Just shout if you need anything". What would I do? Well, after running straight to newsagent to buy a lottery ticket, I would readily crawl back into bed. But then what? Probably would fidget around feeling guilty about all the things I should be doing and after about an hour come down stairs and my chance would have gone.
But with a broken leg it's different. I mean, I really can't move. Honest. After 9 days have just worked out how to get out of bed alone and make it to the bathroom, but can't really do anything once I get there, which makes the effort a bit pointless. On the day I flew home cousin Tim agreed to stay the night and I called him on way back from airport. "Brilliant" said the accountant, "I'm going out for beers with Longers and we wondered if you wanted to come". Prat. What did he think I'd done? Sprained my ankle? I could tell he was going to struggle to match the standard of care to which I had become accustomed. In mean, Bob the Punch had excelled himself, even cooked smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for his little boy. The accountant was going to need a little help. To be fair, he did heat up a beef stew and pour me a beer.
Talking of beef stew, therein lies a story. Would you like to hear it? It's bloody ridiculous, let me tell you. Makes a slip off the edge of a blue run look like a stroll in the park.
Arrived in France on 30 March, a Friday and little sister's birthday. That always puts the rest of us on high alert...a big day, even though she was glamming it up in Miami. Was she having a good time? Had we done enough to shower her with love and affection? Everyone a little on edge, if truth be known, until we heard from her. Phew, good day had and matriach relaxed...a little. Long drive throught France, 4 seasons in one day, rain, snow, sun and whatever the fourth is. Matriach made picnic without pork pie...whatever next? Luckily had brought bread from Rye to land of the baguette, so not completelty disorientated on arrival in mountains.
Anyway, your hero spent most of the drive wondering how to stock fridge in Chalet. Chief nurse (then only Chief Nanny, before recent promotion) suggetsed a big pot of stew. Welcome the Allen's on saturday night, last until Sunday, easy, delicious...hmmmm. Not a bad idea. Hero and Chief Nurse rush down to market Saturday morning. Let the cheese and meat fest begin, slash and burn all fruit and veg. Hero charged with stew, so buys huge, huge bit of beef from the philandering butcher (bastard, left Carole all alone with those boys) and all other goodies; mushrooms, carrots, peppers, the lot.
Rush off to flat and pick up kids, head to chalet. Much excitement, kids desperate to ski, hero relents, so needs to take them to ski shop to pick up skis. Matriarch had found website so skis and boots booked on line, whatever next? Rush in with bambinos and pick up gear. Number 1 daughter needs gloves; quick, choose some, yes they'll do, here's credit card, leave that alone Herbie, come here Lucy, try those on, I said leave that alone Herbie, do they fit, are they the right colour, well that's all they have left, now! Herbie, happy, good, yes please, put in pin number, shove wallet in pocket, escape. Rush across road carrying No 1 daughter (no shoes on) and bag with 2 x skis and boots, shove gear in boot and plug kids in back.
Back to chalet to don battle dress for the green run. Kids suited and booted, ready to go. Need wallet to pay for ski pass. No wallet. Anywhere. Bollocks. Back to shop. No sign. Empty car. No sign. Bollocks, bollocks. Back to shop, no sign. Bollocks. Gone. Deep breaths, kids mewing; desperate for a ski. Bollocks, its gone. Oh well, borrow 50 euros from Chief Nurse and head off. Bollocks.
Anyway, spirits lifted dramatically by quick ski with the progeny. They are brilliant, of course! Ducks to water, eagles to soaring, polar bears to ice, Giggs to wings, hero to law; natural matches. Arrive back at the chalet much enthused, to be greeted by Matriach waving wallet! Is there nothing she cannot do? Had been handed in at the tourist info and Matriarch had gone and retrieved; I can even forgive the lack of pork pie on the autoroute. £150 taken out of wallet. Bollocks. Oh well, hadn't cancelled cards, caluclated risk, good result and wallet (present from Chief Nurse) in tact. Slightly disturbed at thought of cheese eating surrender monkey riffling through my stuff...hope he chokes on his genepi/reblochon/gherkin, but that he survives, because he did hand it in...eventually.
Kids hungry after ski, Daddy. Chief nurse upstairs being Chief nanny, so hero swings into action. At this point does hero (a) just cook kids tea and sit down and interract with them whilst they eat or (b) cook tea and tell them to eat quietly whilst he prepares beef stew for 34? Why kill one bird at a time? So, pasta cooked and slopped in front of progeny. Lump of beef hacked up with blunt knife and everything ready for the pot. Ah, the pot...
The Chalet is owned by a Monseiur Magnifique, I kid you not. He doubles as the driver of the local ski bus and also ownes the chalet next door. Perfect location, especially for easy ambulance access, as already noted, although I wish I had known that then. What a life, sorted, guaranteed repeat business whilst he just potters up and down the hill, collecting his rent every Tuesday. Magnifique? Too bloody right.
Anyway, hero rifles the drawers to see what to cook the stew in. It's going to have to be big...oh yes, perfect, look at that lovely big pressure cooker. Wonderful. Stew loaded, kids given petit suisse and a banana. God, I'm good. Never used one of these before, how hard can it be? Just shove the ingredients in (almost to the top), lock on the top and sit on the hob. No worries. Now, what next?
Need bread. Perfect; kids fed, stew in pot and bread brought. Chief Nurse still on first boob with no 2 daughter; hero so far in the lead, might even get a ski tomorrow. Got back with the bread and as I entered the kitchen heard funny rumbling noise from stove...hmmmm. Pressure cooker shaking and making very grave noises. Heat off, now. Oh well, all I need to do is let the pressure out, can't be that hard. I mean, Delia Smith uses one of these. So "Let's be havin' yer" I shout at the stew and press the button to release the steam. Except it doesn't release just the steam. It releases copious quantities of gravy, all over the wall behind the hob. Bloody hell, these things are dangerous, hero thinks. Like all good pi lawyers, antennae immediately alert to any danger. Do not do anything stupid...
...like try and take the top off the pot. Prat. Daughter number 1 sitting at the table behind when hero does, in fact, decide now is the time to take the top off the pressure cooker. Krakatoa, Vesuvius, Chinaillon. Bollocks. Massive bang and whole chalet showered with beef stew. Seriously. Hit hero right square in the face. Bit of steak hit my right eyebrow. Black eye and cut. Carrot impacts against left temple, burn. Hair covered with gravy. Mushroom...up the nose. I kid you not. Hero has a mushroom burn on the inside of left nostril. Spent next 3 days sneezing fungus.
Poor daughter no 1 shrieks as hero recoils clucthing face and covered in gruel. Stew dripping from ceiling. Chief Nurse rushes in. Bollocks, won't get that ski now. "Are you burned?"; hmmmm. Hero peels t-shirt off to reveal nasty burn to right nipple and shoulder; molten celery, or is it onion? Lucy screams; "Daddy, you're side is bleeding!". Oh no, this is bad. Look down, not knowing what to expect. "Don't worry, Bear. It's ok, that's only a red pepper", which I scrape off timidly. Chief Nurse's advice? "Quick, go and jump in the snow". Thanks.
Anyway, that is true. Can't sleep that night. It took 1 and a half hours to clear up and I swear they will be finding bits of stew in that flat for generations. Couldn't get the sight of the erupting volcano out of my mind that night. Flashbacks. Oh no, Post Traumatic Stew Disorder. Plat du Jour at the local restaurant the following day? Yup, you guessed it.
So, when the charming gourmand asked me if I had done "all zat" to my face in the fall, I meekly said "Oui". Anyway, what is 'pressure cooker' in French?
All this turns me to thinking about the pressures of lfe, not just cookers. I still remember Stuart Kerr in the Pear Tree in Edinburgh in November 1988. "Chris Stephenson? Yeah, I know him. Tall bloke, tries too hard?". Plus ca change. There's a message in there somewhere...
A demain...
It's surprising how tiring lying in bed can be. Just told chief nurse (and wife) how tired I get in the afternoons, to which she replied (slightly tersely after another sleepless night), "No change there, then". Anyway, had lots to do. Grand National and Man Utd in semi final of the Cup, busy day. Kiwi's giving South Africa a good pasting in the Caribbean, which is always satisfying. They really are a miserable bunch, the jarpies. It's as if they really can't understand how anyone can be better than them at anything. Better be careful, don't want to upset too many people when the blog goes worldwide.
Anyway, Sunday now, the day of rest. Just like any other, then. Enforced rest is strangely easy, once you get used to it. I mean, when was the last time I just stayed in bed on a Sunday morning? The truth is that even if I tried to, it wouldn't be as easy as you might think. Suppose chief nurse said, "Darling, I'll do everything today, you stay in bed, watch the cricket and footie, read a book, tap away at your blog, sleep, whatever. I'll look after the kids and bring you anything you want; you don't even have to get out of bed for a wee (more of which later). Just shout if you need anything". What would I do? Well, after running straight to newsagent to buy a lottery ticket, I would readily crawl back into bed. But then what? Probably would fidget around feeling guilty about all the things I should be doing and after about an hour come down stairs and my chance would have gone.
But with a broken leg it's different. I mean, I really can't move. Honest. After 9 days have just worked out how to get out of bed alone and make it to the bathroom, but can't really do anything once I get there, which makes the effort a bit pointless. On the day I flew home cousin Tim agreed to stay the night and I called him on way back from airport. "Brilliant" said the accountant, "I'm going out for beers with Longers and we wondered if you wanted to come". Prat. What did he think I'd done? Sprained my ankle? I could tell he was going to struggle to match the standard of care to which I had become accustomed. In mean, Bob the Punch had excelled himself, even cooked smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for his little boy. The accountant was going to need a little help. To be fair, he did heat up a beef stew and pour me a beer.
Talking of beef stew, therein lies a story. Would you like to hear it? It's bloody ridiculous, let me tell you. Makes a slip off the edge of a blue run look like a stroll in the park.
Arrived in France on 30 March, a Friday and little sister's birthday. That always puts the rest of us on high alert...a big day, even though she was glamming it up in Miami. Was she having a good time? Had we done enough to shower her with love and affection? Everyone a little on edge, if truth be known, until we heard from her. Phew, good day had and matriach relaxed...a little. Long drive throught France, 4 seasons in one day, rain, snow, sun and whatever the fourth is. Matriach made picnic without pork pie...whatever next? Luckily had brought bread from Rye to land of the baguette, so not completelty disorientated on arrival in mountains.
Anyway, your hero spent most of the drive wondering how to stock fridge in Chalet. Chief nurse (then only Chief Nanny, before recent promotion) suggetsed a big pot of stew. Welcome the Allen's on saturday night, last until Sunday, easy, delicious...hmmmm. Not a bad idea. Hero and Chief Nurse rush down to market Saturday morning. Let the cheese and meat fest begin, slash and burn all fruit and veg. Hero charged with stew, so buys huge, huge bit of beef from the philandering butcher (bastard, left Carole all alone with those boys) and all other goodies; mushrooms, carrots, peppers, the lot.
Rush off to flat and pick up kids, head to chalet. Much excitement, kids desperate to ski, hero relents, so needs to take them to ski shop to pick up skis. Matriarch had found website so skis and boots booked on line, whatever next? Rush in with bambinos and pick up gear. Number 1 daughter needs gloves; quick, choose some, yes they'll do, here's credit card, leave that alone Herbie, come here Lucy, try those on, I said leave that alone Herbie, do they fit, are they the right colour, well that's all they have left, now! Herbie, happy, good, yes please, put in pin number, shove wallet in pocket, escape. Rush across road carrying No 1 daughter (no shoes on) and bag with 2 x skis and boots, shove gear in boot and plug kids in back.
Back to chalet to don battle dress for the green run. Kids suited and booted, ready to go. Need wallet to pay for ski pass. No wallet. Anywhere. Bollocks. Back to shop. No sign. Empty car. No sign. Bollocks, bollocks. Back to shop, no sign. Bollocks. Gone. Deep breaths, kids mewing; desperate for a ski. Bollocks, its gone. Oh well, borrow 50 euros from Chief Nurse and head off. Bollocks.
Anyway, spirits lifted dramatically by quick ski with the progeny. They are brilliant, of course! Ducks to water, eagles to soaring, polar bears to ice, Giggs to wings, hero to law; natural matches. Arrive back at the chalet much enthused, to be greeted by Matriach waving wallet! Is there nothing she cannot do? Had been handed in at the tourist info and Matriarch had gone and retrieved; I can even forgive the lack of pork pie on the autoroute. £150 taken out of wallet. Bollocks. Oh well, hadn't cancelled cards, caluclated risk, good result and wallet (present from Chief Nurse) in tact. Slightly disturbed at thought of cheese eating surrender monkey riffling through my stuff...hope he chokes on his genepi/reblochon/gherkin, but that he survives, because he did hand it in...eventually.
Kids hungry after ski, Daddy. Chief nurse upstairs being Chief nanny, so hero swings into action. At this point does hero (a) just cook kids tea and sit down and interract with them whilst they eat or (b) cook tea and tell them to eat quietly whilst he prepares beef stew for 34? Why kill one bird at a time? So, pasta cooked and slopped in front of progeny. Lump of beef hacked up with blunt knife and everything ready for the pot. Ah, the pot...
The Chalet is owned by a Monseiur Magnifique, I kid you not. He doubles as the driver of the local ski bus and also ownes the chalet next door. Perfect location, especially for easy ambulance access, as already noted, although I wish I had known that then. What a life, sorted, guaranteed repeat business whilst he just potters up and down the hill, collecting his rent every Tuesday. Magnifique? Too bloody right.
Anyway, hero rifles the drawers to see what to cook the stew in. It's going to have to be big...oh yes, perfect, look at that lovely big pressure cooker. Wonderful. Stew loaded, kids given petit suisse and a banana. God, I'm good. Never used one of these before, how hard can it be? Just shove the ingredients in (almost to the top), lock on the top and sit on the hob. No worries. Now, what next?
Need bread. Perfect; kids fed, stew in pot and bread brought. Chief Nurse still on first boob with no 2 daughter; hero so far in the lead, might even get a ski tomorrow. Got back with the bread and as I entered the kitchen heard funny rumbling noise from stove...hmmmm. Pressure cooker shaking and making very grave noises. Heat off, now. Oh well, all I need to do is let the pressure out, can't be that hard. I mean, Delia Smith uses one of these. So "Let's be havin' yer" I shout at the stew and press the button to release the steam. Except it doesn't release just the steam. It releases copious quantities of gravy, all over the wall behind the hob. Bloody hell, these things are dangerous, hero thinks. Like all good pi lawyers, antennae immediately alert to any danger. Do not do anything stupid...
...like try and take the top off the pot. Prat. Daughter number 1 sitting at the table behind when hero does, in fact, decide now is the time to take the top off the pressure cooker. Krakatoa, Vesuvius, Chinaillon. Bollocks. Massive bang and whole chalet showered with beef stew. Seriously. Hit hero right square in the face. Bit of steak hit my right eyebrow. Black eye and cut. Carrot impacts against left temple, burn. Hair covered with gravy. Mushroom...up the nose. I kid you not. Hero has a mushroom burn on the inside of left nostril. Spent next 3 days sneezing fungus.
Poor daughter no 1 shrieks as hero recoils clucthing face and covered in gruel. Stew dripping from ceiling. Chief Nurse rushes in. Bollocks, won't get that ski now. "Are you burned?"; hmmmm. Hero peels t-shirt off to reveal nasty burn to right nipple and shoulder; molten celery, or is it onion? Lucy screams; "Daddy, you're side is bleeding!". Oh no, this is bad. Look down, not knowing what to expect. "Don't worry, Bear. It's ok, that's only a red pepper", which I scrape off timidly. Chief Nurse's advice? "Quick, go and jump in the snow". Thanks.
Anyway, that is true. Can't sleep that night. It took 1 and a half hours to clear up and I swear they will be finding bits of stew in that flat for generations. Couldn't get the sight of the erupting volcano out of my mind that night. Flashbacks. Oh no, Post Traumatic Stew Disorder. Plat du Jour at the local restaurant the following day? Yup, you guessed it.
So, when the charming gourmand asked me if I had done "all zat" to my face in the fall, I meekly said "Oui". Anyway, what is 'pressure cooker' in French?
All this turns me to thinking about the pressures of lfe, not just cookers. I still remember Stuart Kerr in the Pear Tree in Edinburgh in November 1988. "Chris Stephenson? Yeah, I know him. Tall bloke, tries too hard?". Plus ca change. There's a message in there somewhere...
A demain...
1 comment:
stew for supper at yours next time please stevo
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