Bukowski on the bus.

Whilst on the local bus into town a few weeks ago, I noticed that someone with an extremely steady hand had scratched the words 'This whole place is diseased with the presence of everybody but myself.' into the back of the seat in front of me. I was fairly sure that it was a Charles Bukowski quote and checked with a couple of my more navel-gazing friends later to make sure.
I encourage this kind of grafitti, it lifts the spirits to see something dawbed on a public surface that has been written by someone who has read a book and had a thought. It is so much more engaging than simply 'I luv Craig 4eva 4real.'
Not that I mean any of the Craigs, Daves, Kevs or Garys any disservice - I am glad their underaged girlfriends love them, it will make it much easier to pressure them into giving blowjobs in the backseats of Vauxhall Novas. But I am not entertained by these felt tip declarations; they don't make me wish their author had written more. So, next time you're on a bus, scratch something worth reading and address it to me.

Mixing it up.

I am in a sunny mood today, my new cocktail shaker has arrived. I have had my trusty lounge shaker for a good long while now, and it has served me well. The cap on it serves as a perfect and handy 25ml measure (the fact I don't use it since my free pouring training isn't important - it's a feature and we love each and every one)and I have flung many a Martini, many a mile in it. But I was given my lounge shaker by a Diagio rep at a spirits expo, it is a Smirnoff promo and is blood red with chrome detailing, and I have missed my old style. So, as an indulgent treat for myself and my concoctions, I have splurged on a glorious, shining Boston shaker. It is luxury in your hand, a monument to everything alcohol should be. A heavy base to the mixing glass will allow muddling for mojitos, without risking crack or chips, and gives a smooth and easy rhythm to the shake. People assume you just throw eveything in and jiggle it about, but an easy and regular shake is important to ensure the ice cracks properly. The back and forth of the wrist needs to be steady and firm -ask any man who's just had an afternoon to himself.
It also has a beautiful, shiny, stainless steel beaker, one of the new breed of easy strain tins with holes in the rim to allow easy straining without the need for a Hawthorne strainer. To the bar!

Marie Antoinette may have been misunderstood, but she had a point...

A year ago today, my waters broke. At the time I would have given anything for that to have meant the garden pond had malfunctioned and sucked all the Koi into the drainage pipes but, alas, it was merely the beginning of a truly horrific weekend. To celebrate, as all true pain should be celebrated, I am baking a cake for my sons first birthday. It will, sugar Gods allowing, be in the shape of Iggle Piggle. For those of you unfamiliar, Iggle Piggle is Upsy Daisy's bitch. Upsy Daisy is a bit of a tease, offering kisses to everyone but refusing to allow anyone into her bed. I have spoken at length to all those likely to eat it and claimed that I am attempting to make it from scratch. This is a dirty, stinking lie. At this very moment, nestled behind the Cornflakes and the Readybrek, I have two boxes of Betty Crockers Devil Cake Mix. I shall bake it, smear it with blue and red butter icing and add white chocolate buttons for eyes. I shall place the huge number '1' candle I bought today on it and present it to the oohhing and aahhing crowd with a modest nod of smug domesticity. And I shan't be sorry.

And so it begins...

I have long resisted the temptation to start a blog, for fear I become one of those people who spend paragraph after painful paragraph pointing out the continuity errors in episodes of Smallville. I don't watch it, you see, so I figured I was drastically under qualified.
But here I am. I gather I can use this little corner of the inter-web to record and share whatever random and delicious thoughts strike me at the moment my fingers hit the keys, which sounds promising...