Our first major bit of fraternal discord, yesterday. It all started when, after observing the Peanut Gallery engaging in some enthusiastic weeding down by the back fence I went down to do a spot check and where the tiny wee bay tree I've been nursing and coddling for months was a giant hole. Yep, he'd wrenched my poor wee tree up by the roots and flung it in the garden waste bin (but leaving behind several other weeds).
Dear little tree was recovered and replanted, but if it shrivels up, I won't blame it. Sigh. (and it wasn't as if I'd not said "mind the bay tree", either, but never mind).
So then I got snarled at for not attending to the washing properly (I'd slunk off to have a couple of hours net time while it bounced around in the drier but a Microdaft update had crashed my PC and it took me more than a while to get the poor thing up and wobbling on its feet, the poor old senior citizen that it is). So I was kinda like having a major drama, but never mind. Yes, I know he was busy with tea, but he could have given me a shout, instead of being all passive agressive, ready the pounce when I emerged, reeling, still mid IT crisis (didn't get it sorted until well into my desired evening's viewing).
So so much for Sunday. Not terribly fun and I didn't even get to catch up on my mail. So unfair, because I'm only on once a fortnight these days. Also, I'll be on my own re the weeding from now on, too, but I tried not to get upset but just couldn''t quite manage it. I mean, there was a bloody great hole where my bay tree had been. It was upsetting, not to put too fine a point on it. I tried to make a joke of it later, but nothing doing. Shrug.
I did get to see most of the first Sally Lockhart Mysteries. These, if I recall, had been absolutely rubbished in the UK press, but I liked it. It was more of an arch Alan Mooore or Flashman potboiler than your usual bonnet drama, but it worked for me. All frightfully lurid with triads, rubies, opium dens and the like. More of a penny dreadful, or an inflation adjusted Vertigo version of same, and I didn't mind it a bit (though the Peanut Gallery complained he'd missed at least ten murders just popping out to the loo - alas the ABC plays them all in one hit, with no breaks, unlike the BBC which serialises them, which works far better).
But I liked it. And it had JJ in it. Yep, if last year was the year of Armitage (in which backwards and backwoods telly caught up with the bulk of the man's back catalogue in the space of a few months, often several series showing the same night), then this is the year of JJ, because he's just popping up all over the place as we (finally!) catch up on the last six years or so of his CV. And I do so like JJ.
Saturday night was a wash too, almost literally though the rain ended up not being enough to swirl around in the bottom of our rain guage (ie it pretty much only rained as I walked from door to car). Anyway, I was promised a Chinese restaurant in Eastwood. Turned out to be a Singapore restuarant in Marsfield. I thought it might still be okay until I saw the forks and spoons on the table, and a clientele of middle aged, middle class white folks. I had to ask for salt and chilli sauce to give my dish the tiniest bit of flavour. Sigh. And I'd been so looking forward to it. Asian food for the unadventurous and spice-phobic. Spare me.
I mean, I should have known, given from whom the invitation to dine came, but I thought they were walking the wild side, which, I suppose, for them, they were, but they'd never heard of nasi goreng before (it's practically our national dish, besides being the emperor wot built the wall to keep the rabbits out). Sigh.
Okay, perhaps its churlish to expect a laksa to taste of, well, laksa, but still. At least the coversation held up, sort of. Wish I could have bought that bottle of vino I picked up in DJs the other day. It was surprisingly drinkable, considering it was the cheapest bottle of plonk in the place, and superior to the wine we actually had. Sigh again).
At least last night's roast was great, despite the snarling (and hence the snarling, all my fault because I'd asked for a meat dish, no doubt, needing to up my iron intake). But it was jolly nice. And oddly very sunday, even though I've not had a sunday roast since the 70s.
Friday then, where I was least expecting jolliment, I found some. It was a deathless office do and I was deeply into my cheap plonk when I ran into an old mate from several restructures ago who is now in the same building and we caught up, going nine to the dozen, picking up where we left off. She's Scots, so we click. (Not that I click with every Scot, but I find sassenachs shrill at times, especially here). That was fun.
The only other tv I got to watch was The Saint at 7am on Saturday, betwixt laundry loads and the Sydney Water guy. I do so love the Saint.
The Sydney Water guy was refreshingly nice, not at all a screaming harridan like from some reality show as I feared. He tsked over the proscribed weeds, all lovingly planted by Mum when they were fashionable, not invasive pests, but other than that, it was ticks all round (so long as I promise to install that long overdue water tank, which I will, they just cost $$$ here). I was pleased to get what amounts to a B minus for the garden, considering it's been neglected all summer. Hence the activity on Sunday (oh dear). I also got a free plastic rain guage. I'm so easily pleased (despite all the griping above) that I was well tickled, though utterly destroyed when I ran down to check it on Sunday morning to discover not even enough water to roll around the bottom. So much for the heavy rains they predicted. Grizzle.
I suppose the one good thing last week was flipping through an old, old recipe book and a letter from my grandmother came fluttering out, containing, oh, holiest of grails, her recipe for stovies, in her own hand. Oh, treasured family heirloom (I don't really have any so I'm stoked to find that). Stovies! We're having stovies tonight!
Late PM update: Ooh, I have stovie receptors. They were soooo good. So very good. I love Grandma's stovies. I've never had them before (we can guess, mum made them once, Dad said they weren't as good as his mother used to make, they never got made again). I've never had my grandmother's stovies, but near enough will do. Loved 'em.
Now I gotta go watch David Morrissey.
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