A Twist In My Sobrainie

Friday, 29^th August

An uneventful night, compared to recent ones, I was neither savaged by vermin, or soaked by amphibians.  The mosquitoes have been making up for it, with subtle, low-level attacks, under the dining table.  It was also a fairly uneventful journey home, apart from spending a staggering amount in the duty free.  Café Crème Bleus for Troy (in his favourite 20-smoke tins), Black Sobranie for me, and for dinner parties, as I haven’t seen them for maybe 20 years.  Oh, for the return of the Sobranie Cocktails.  Then after shave for Troy, and Perry, Guerlain retro cologne for me, and bingo!  232 Euros lighter.

We got the best seats on the plane again, thanks to Troy’s complex strategy, and although the Easystaff were charming, it wasn’t quite the laugh per mile journey, that the outbound was.   However, the bacon baguette, though brown sauce free, was just the antidote to a week of tagines.  On arrival, we had just about given up hope of seeing our luggage, when the belt roared into life.  Twenty minutes later, we were in the car, and on our way to London.  I cleared the To Do Box Box, and we popped out for supper.  Haddock and chips, yet another anti-cous-cous meal.

Saturday, 30^th August

Back to earth with a bump.  Three ultrasounds, and two CTs at the Wellington this morning.  Then twenty-five further MRI scans, urgh!

Sunday, 31^st August

Two more CTs, and twelve MRI’s.  Shortest blog yet…

Caravan Serai

Tuesday, 26^th August

I had a close encounter of the toad kind last night.  We were having a nightcap, as usual, on our front terrace, when Troy spotted a large frog.  Being partial to frogs, and not just grilled with sauce, and decided to pick up our little green visitor.  Clearly alarmed by being lifted four foot in the air, my warty friend sprayed all over us, out of which orifice I wouldn’t like to speculate.  My favourite holiday DVF, covered in frog juice.  Who’d have thought that a single amphibian, even a large one, could contain so much fluid.  Taking  the hint, I set him down to let him hop away into the night.

We left the vast airy spaces of Jnane Tamsna, and took the hot dusty road to Caravan Serai.  The location of this hotel is so obscure, even the taxi driver got lost repeatedly.  This hotel is also beautiful, but in a totally different way.  While the buildings are far more traditional, there is more of an emphasis on creature comforts.  Our suite consists of: a dressing room, bathroom, loo, front sitting area, bedroom, rear living room, oh, and our own private pool.  Here there is convenient WiFi, stereo, TV, and music in the bar, not to mention a proper wine list.

We were serenaded over supper with traditional Gnawa music, and the cat who says ‘Ow’ tried, in vain, to cadge a bit of tagine.  We encouraged it to say ‘Miaow,’ but it stuck with the simpler ‘Ow.’  There are several cats, at least three tortoises, and many brightly coloured tiny birds.  I tried to feed one prehistoric tortoise with a tempting blade of grass, but it just got pissed off and chased me around the garden.

Wednesday, 27^th August

Do you want the good news, or the bad news?  Let’s get the bad news out of the way, we found out that my father is going to need a pretty major operation, sooner rather than later, which is all I’m prepared to say for the time being.

Needless to say, the good news doesn’t really make up for it, but here we go.  When we were here in February, Xanthe and I went into one of the Prix Fixe jewellery shops.   The items in these shops cost a premium, but are of certifiable quality, and the best part is, no haggling.  Like Brian, in the eponymous Life Of, I hate haggling.  I suppose it’s because I’m impatient.  In this shop we found a gorgeous necklace, made of facetted tourmaline beads, strung in several rows.  It was graduated from green to brown, and back to green, and would have matched my colouring perfectly.  For some reason, trapped in the obscurity of time, I failed to whip out my credit card, and have been regretting it ever since.

Today we returned to the Medina, purely to search the souk for ‘my’ necklace.  After some searching, we found the shop in question.  Disaster!  The necklace had apparently been sold during the intervening six months.  In its place was a complex, tourmaline twisty jobbie, without the subtle colour gradations, and costing half as much again.  I consoled myself with a chunky red resin and silver piece of ethnoeco, and we went to find a cab.  Exiting from the south-west corner of the souk, we found one last prix fixe.  I was bursting from the heat at this point, so I wanted to explore the interior to get the benefit of the air conditioning, as much as anything else.  And there it was…  I whipped out the plastic faster than you can say credit crunch, and now it is mine, all mine.

We had supper at the hotel again, and retired to our pool for a drink.  Troy pointed out a drowning rat, no, not me struggling to get out of the water, but a genuine, bona fide, drowning, wild, black rat.  In a humanitarian effort worthy of the UN, I attempted to rescue it.  It showed its gratitude for being lifted from the murky depths by sinking its incisors into my right index finger.  A pure cartoon moment was had, as the rodent was suspended in space, hanging onto my finger, while I screamed for Africa.  Quick-thinking Troy got me to plunge my hand back into the water, to make Roland let go.  He then used my Tory Burch flip-flop to bat it back into the centre of the pool, where it eventually drowned.  Nice.

So now my honeymoon has left me at risk of rat-bite fever and rabies.  Any more diseases starting with ‘R,’ anyone?

Thursday, 28^th August

After last night’s episode I am quite jumpy, and scream like a girl when one of the tortoises unexpectedly nudges me in the garden.  The manager has kindly offered a free manicure, pedicure and reflexology, to make up for the curious incident of the rat in the night.  However, giving a manicure, even if it’s free, to someone with a cut and swollen finger, perhaps wasn’t the best of ideas.

This afternoon Troy and I both had massages, from the local specialist Kabir.  He had an extraordinary knack of silent circling, like a shark.  Troy declared his, ‘Mental,’ while I preferred the term ‘Challenging.’

Put it this way, it’s the only time that I’ve had a massage, and been grateful that I’d thought to have a bikini wax last week.

Caravan Serai

Jnane Tamsna

Saturday, 23rd August

We were up before the sparrows even started farting this morning.  It was brilliant to be able to walk to the check-in desk in less than four minutes.  Particularly as I was far from fully awake.  We mooched in the executive lounge for about an hour, helped ourselves to an armload of free magazines and newspapers, then went to the gate.  I had thought that booking the executive lounge was a bit of an extravagance, but we saved a fortune, by preventing me going anywhere near the duty free.

Speedy Boarding Plus got us seats right at the front of the plane, facing the excessively chirpy cabin crew.  Now I never, ever drink champagne of morning flights, but as it is our honeymoon, I thought I would give this peculiarly British sport a try.  I was hoping that it would send us back to sleep.  Tony the purser poured us each a glass, to be clear, that's Troy and I, not Tony and I.  I was just about to ask, as a joke, that the bottle be put on ice, when Tony whipped about a champagne bucket, et voila.  Very classy, Easyjet.  We spent the flight swapping stories with the cabin crew.  We learned about take-off drinks, landing drinks, and tray-sliding, all sadly no longer possible due to the health and safety Nazis.  Not a wink of sleep was had, and three short hours later, at ten in the morning, we touched down in Marrakech.

We have only stayed in the Medina before, and the drive in the wilderness was very different from our trips into the pink-walled city.  The hotel, Jnane Tamsna, is quite extraordinary.  The name means garden of paradise.  It's a sprawling estate with several large houses, each secluded from the others.  There are four pools, and acres of land dedicated to producing organic vegetables for the hotel.  It is in the middle of nowhere, and there is no satellite TV, no radio, no music - and precious little WiFi.  Guests are provided with their own mobiles, so you can contact reception without having to leave the pool.  Last week there was both royalty, and Hollywood A-listers staying, and I suppose you can't expect them to make a five minute journey in their flip-flops, to ask for more towels.  There isn't even a menu, you eat what the chef has decided to cook for each meal, and that's that.  It's for the discerning traveller, rather than the demanding.  The only choice you have to make, is what colour wine to have with your supper.  In the direct sun, the heat is blistering, who would book a trip to Morocco in August?

I simply adore this country.  In the bustling Arab confines of the Medina, it is hard to remember that you are in Africa, out here, with the scorched earth, and date-laden palms, it is impossible to forget.

Sunday, 24th August

The heat was bearable early this morning, and I took my camera on a tour of the estate.  It is easy to become disorientated, and lost, on the many pathways, but I eventually found my way back to our suite.  I dropped off the camera, and went to find Bahija, the chef, in her kitchen at the big house, for my cookery lesson.

Although I do cook North African food at home, I was keen to see how it is done in a proper Marrachi kitchen.

It was also really good for me to spend two hours speaking French, and we had a conversation that ranged far beyond the culinary.  We discussed politics, education and discipline.  I told Bahija about the knife and gun crime in London, and she told me that here it is perfectly acceptable to give a youngster a clip round the ear if they step out of line.  She also confessed a weakness for watching Gordon Ramsay's 'Cauche-mars de Cuisine.'

Two hours later I had made: a huge chicken pastilla, ('I'll give you the recipe for twelve.'  She said.  'What, you mean that's not the recipe for twelve?') lamb tagine with preserved lemons, and pears poached in orange juice and Ras-el-Hanout.

This was then served for lunch to my new husband, how much better can a honeymoon get?

Anna the chef joined us for supper, in an ironic twist of fate, her newly-wed husband had been struck down by an attack of the trots, a reward for daring to eat on their trip to the mountains today.  Troy and I are not planning on going anywhere for this leg of the trip, and we will see how things go at the next hotel.

Monday, 25th August

The sun was sufficiently tame today that we managed some proper sunbathing.  In the afternoon, Mr and Mrs Moore had simultaneous reflexology.  I haven't had a treatment since I was having chemo, half an hour before the drugs, in a cold harshly lit room, in basement in Harley Street.  Lying on the daybeds on our front terrace, shielded from the sun by the canisse, it couldn't seem more different.

Troy has been keen for us to spend a night under the stars on these daybeds, but I am concerned that we would fall prey to the myriad biting, stinging, and possibly slithering, local wildlife.  Tonight we will sleep in our bed at Jnane Tamsna, and tomorrow we go to Caravanserai.

Jnane Tamsna

A Mouse In The House

Thursday, 21^st August

The journey to Wembley was slightly less traumatic than usual.  Having failed to book ourselves onto the special charter train, we got a taxi to Great Portland Street, and got on the tube before the masses.  I even got a seat!  I stopped along Olympic Way (I know most people call it Wembley Way, but I am married to the pedant from outer space) and clicked off a few fish-eyes of the great arch.  We went straight to The Wildly Expensive Champagne And Seafood Bar – my capitals, not theirs.  I scoped the available choices, then spent a staggering £39.20, on peeled prawns, crayfish tails, potato salad and gravadlax.  When I collected our food, the tab had gone through for a king prawn salad, instead of the peeled prawns.  Unwilling to get back into the enormous queue, to get a refund and re-order, I decided to do a little horse-trading with the chef.  He showed me his tab, and I showed him my receipt, the mathematical cogs turned fairly slowly, until he noticed the price of the gravadlax.  ‘Bloody hell!’  He exclaimed, ‘They’re charging £14.75, for that?’

I was staggering under the weight of the enormous black rubber tray (very fetish-chic), when a lovely waiter came to my rescue.  We decanted the food onto the table, and Troy went to get the drinks from another bar.  The mandarins who run Club Wembley, in their not-so-infinite wisdom, have decided that TWECASB can only sell whole bottles of wine.

We are about half way through our meal, when we were joined by a visitor.  A tiny figure shot under the table, run around my feet and off through Troy’s legs.  No, not Short Wright-Phillips, but a weeny mouse.  He then parked himself under a chair, clearly terrified of the humans.  Looking at the way some of them were dressed, I don’t blame him.  He then disappeared behind the bar, only to re-emerge periodically for another brief sprint.  ‘Oh look,’ I quipped, ‘it’s Peter Mouse.’  Or, ‘It’s obviously true that most of the England squad play for Portsmouse.’  Although I have nothing against mice, Troy and I rapidly lost our appetites.  Mr Moore went to the bar, behind which the offending rodent was lurking, and told them.  ‘Oh, really?’  Was the less than satisfactory response.

The family at the next table had a bigger grumble, they’d paid a massive £175 for supper, and whole bottles, and certainly weren’t expecting to share it with vermin.  ‘I came ‘ere to watch David Beckham, not Mickey Mouse.’  He growled.  He spoke too soon, in fact, that one and a half inches of mouse proved much more entertaining, than a whole six foot of David Beckham.

Today I realize that I have got far too much to do, work and socializing, before we go off on our honeymoon, on Friday afternoon.  I am in a pack-flap. 

Friday, 22^nd August

Dick and Mitzi came for supper last night, and Bradd and Rachel joined us for drinks.  Dick was delighted with his new birthday presents, and we had a lovely low key meal at Manny’s.  I was up early today, and running around like a mad thing to get everything done for our trip.  Shortly before five, we finally headed off to Gatwick.  I have discovered, that if your flight is stupid o’clock, and you are planning on parking the car at the hotel, it is pretty cost neutral to book into the Hilton for one night, and use the summer special parking.  At least it is only a four minute walk to the check-in desk at 4.40am tomorrow.  Urgh!  I never sleep well before an early start, as I am terrified of oversleeping.

I spoke to Xanthe tonight, and asked her how her ears are.  ‘Well, I can still hear with them...’  was the answer, everyone’s a comedian these days.

Sitting in the bar before dinner, I overhear the following story:  At a major international surgical conference, held in Chicago, a small group of surgeons are talking at the bar.  The German surgeon says, ‘In my country, we can take a liver, transplant it into a patient, and the next day he is looking for work.’  ‘That’s nothing,’  says the Canadian surgeon, ‘in my country, we can take a pair of lungs, divide them, and the next day, two people are looking for work.’  The Japanese surgeon nods slowly, ‘In my country, we take brain, divide into three, operate, and the next day three men are looking for work.’  The English surgeon scratches his head, although he works for the NHS, he is determined not to be outdone by this foreign display of expertise.  ‘In my country, you bring in one Scotsman, and the next day, the entire country is looking for work.’

We're On Our To Wembley...

Monday, 18th August

No patients today, so no trip to the West End.  It was positively like a holiday, apart from the persistently grim weather.  And we're not even up North.  I tackled the 'To Do Box Box, i.e. the never-ending pile of personal financial and other bits and pieces that need sorting out.  A job not dissimilar to painting Albert Bridge, finish one end, and start painting at the other.  Or maybe that's the Forth Bridge, perhaps on Albert Bridge, it's replacing the light bulbs that is a never ending task.  A bit like the halogens in our kitchen, come to that.

The problem with a day loafing around the house, is that there's not a lot of focus, and emptying half the crap out of a small black A4 box, doesn't really seem like an achievement, although I am sure that it is.  It does have a certain deleterious effect on the bank account though, getting through the bills.  I then had a slightly more negative poke at the finances, completing my winter wardrobe with a couple of dresses, and pairs of trousers from Toast.  However, I would like to point out that my entire stash (also including a pair of pewter pumps and a two tone scarf), cost less than Beth has just spent on one cashmere leopard skin, limited edition, scarf from Vuitton.  However she promises me that she will love it like a baby, I do hope that doesn't mean regurgitating on it, and chewing the ends.  Kindly, she said that Xanthe can have it when she goes upstairs.  Which got me thinking, if we have upstairs, where Troy and I sleep, and upstairs-upstairs, where the children are, are Troy and I in limbo, or the kids in Nirvana?

Troy has taken far too much of a liking to my new Nokia E90 Communicator.  Yes, you gadget freaks out there, read 'em and weep.  He's been admiring the sleek titanium contours, the giant screen and ease of programming - but he wants an iPhone, so 'Oi! Troy, step away from the Nokia.'

I went to The Chelsea Arts Club again this evening, for an early drink with Christopher, who is a writer. I clutched my application form in my sweaty paws, as we had a glass of wine in the garden.  He thought it was overly defensive - 'Although I am a doctor.....'  Well, I'll find out in two years time, if I have enough suitably arty credentials.  We also talked about my book, which he feels is a sufficiently interesting proposal, to talk to his own agent about it.

Tuesday, 19th August

The summer is running away from us, and who'd have thought we'd even seen it, with the grey skies and constant drizzle.  Troy described the sky as being biblical, on one perfectly stormy night last week, which I think sums it up perfectly.  We were incredibly lucky with the weather for the wedding, particularly as we had it in the first week of Wimbledon, which should have guaranteed us a downpour.

I spent most of the day reporting MRI scans, and downloading new apps for my phone, getting to grips with the existing applications I don't really understand, and buying really useful things like 3D Tetris, which is nigh impossible to play.  I have to admit, having spent ten minutes figuring out how to use the barcode reader, I couldn't think what use it would ever be.

I popped out to the Harbour Club late afternoon, for a spot of pre-honeymoon grooming.  Without giving you too much information, I was half way through the most painful of female procedures - when the fire alarm went off, and we were all evacuated.  So we had to stand in the dripping rain outside the Club for twenty minutes, until the firemen stood the alarm down.  Then back inside for more ripping and screaming.

Troy and I then had the sort of evening most newly-weds would adore.  Shooting Wii zombies, with machine guns, in co-op mode.  Well, most newly-wed blokes anyway.

I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but in my skull, there burns the brain of a man.

Wednesday, 20th August

I have been totally disorientated today, by going in to John & Lizzie's.  I would normally be there on Thursday afternoons, and indeed I am there tomorrow, but I agreed to cover this morning.  I think it confused everyone else as well.  I started out with only three patients booked, but the morning rapidly became fairly chaotic.  Then I went home to complete another MR marathon, before leaving to watch England play the Czech Republic at Wembley.  We have been listening to some of the players comments, Joe Cole feels that's it important for the team to keep moving, which is excellent news for the fans, as it would be boring if they just stood there.  And Fabio is pleased with both the captain, and the squid that he has chosen.  Well Squiddly Diddly in goal, couldn't be worse than Fumble-Fingers Robbo.

And I am soo looking forward to my champagne and seafood....

The Balkanisation of Battersea

Friday, 15th August

Friday provided more questions than answers. Desperate to find something interesting in the Olympics, I turned to the political issues. No, not China’s woeful policy on Tibet, a much more pressing sporting point. How come Roger Federer, and Lionel Messi are allowed to play their respective sports, while professional boxer Amir Khan, khan’t? If anyone knows, please let me know, it’s been bothering me for years. However, a brand new conundrum struck me today – it must be at least five years since people used a 3 ¼ inch floppy, so why, even on new operating systems, is the save sign an out-of-date disc? Lastly, are accents contagious? Steve McClaren, the wally with the brolly, gave an interview to a Dutch interviewer yesterday. He affected a pseudo-lowlands accent, ‘Vee are – how you say, unterdogsh, mashive, unterdogsh.’ I know that I sometimes come home from work, positively South African, but pretending not to speak your own language, takes the bishkit. I finally emailed BoJo, to volunteer my services for the London Healthy Eating Campaign. Let’s see if I get a response.

I deposited Perry with the Nelsons this evening, for his trip to Majorca. That child travels more than Paul Theroux. I got home to prepare the Chinese crackling pork belly for supper. Two and a half hours the recipe said, unfortunately I hadn’t read the bit that said …and overnight drying time. Bugger, bugger, bugger. So we went out for Tapas.

The Balkanisation of Battersea continues. Once we got to the local, Troy got accused of being small-minded, and childish, over this whole Dynamo Square/Sparta Park business. Why can’t people see that if anyone ought to make an apology, it ought to be the boxheads. Perhaps when Condoleeza Rice has finished in Georgia, she could pop into The Castle.


Saturday, 16th August

Down to the Arndale, for a bit of pikey shopping. Superdrug or Boots? I know which side my bread is buttered. Walking past Adams reminded me of when Xanthe was cast for a shoot, aged about two and a half. She was meant to be modeling their Christmas occasion range, and was going to be featured, life-size, in-store. Fluff and I drove to Brighton, and met the stylist. Xanthe turned her toddler nose in the air, ‘I not wearing they clothes, they’s yocky. I got much better clotheses at home.’ I hung my head in shame at my middle class daughter. ‘Perhaps we could try some make up on you?’ Ventured the stylist. I looked optimistic, Xanthe loved make up. ‘I not wearing make up, I is perfickly pretty as I is.’ Oh God. We had to go home, fashion tails between our legs. Troy and I squandered a couple of hundred quid in Game, including buying Resident Evil for the Wii, with guns that you fit the remote and the nunchuck into. Oh yes! Now even PS Troy is prepared to give the Wii a go. We had a house full of scousers and Sunderland fans tonight. Troy cooked his signature chilli, then served the North-Easterners some sour grapes to go with their hard cheese. The football season has restarted. One nil to the Arsenal. One nil to Liverpool.


Sunday, 17th August

Beth came over, and Reggie went through her usual palaver. She has taken against Lord Crumpet of Knowsley, and Beth gets caught in the crossfire. We went to meet Leo and Victoria at The Waterfront, for lunch. Fantastic roast chicken, with crispy skin, Yorkshires and the works. We discussed everything from conspiracy theories, to movies, and everything in between. I am finally cooking the pork belly, having overnighted it last night.

I lost yet another bet to Troy tonight. That makes it 170 million quid I owe him, as we’ve been double or quitsing for five years now. However, by May I will owe him nothing, I committed the heinous crime of betting against my own team. Mr Moore thinks Arsenal will win the league. If they do, I won’t mind owing him £340,000,000.

Sparta Park

Monday, 11th August

Forgive me blogfather, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last blogfession, and now I am playing catch up. Which is tricky at my age, when you can’t remember what you had for breakfast. Oh, that would be nothing, which, considering I never eat breakfast, is a pretty stupid thing to forget. I managed to lose the ultrasound room at King Ed’s this morning. Which isn’t as stupid as it sounds, the bastards moved it. When I finally got in there, I gave the ultrasound gel bottle a good shake, and jizzed gel all over myself.

I spent a fabulously productive hour and a half at work, then went to meet Damien and Troy, to do a bit of brainstorming for the new football team. Owing to some crass behavior of the founder members, the boys have left Dynamo Square, and are starting a new team. After some suggestions ranging from the crude, to the downright laughable, we settled on Sparta Park. Or Σπαρτα Παρκ. Within a few further minutes we even had a logo, the name in Greek, with a Spartan helmet. You’d pay Saatchi millions for that kind of service. Troy had been working on Manny for kit, and post match drink, sponsorship for Dynamo Square. Hopefully, this can now be migrated over to Sparta Park. The boys had already designed the strip, and Sparta Park is to be the first team in the league to have a fully co-ordinated kit.

Troy even went out to train.



Tuesday, The Glorious Twelfth of August

Troy has spent the day adding Manny’s logo to the kit, and putting together a proposal to show him. I went to Sainsbury’s, to get doings for tandoori lamb chops. No, damn, rack of lamb, not chops. I wouldn’t eat chops, they’re common. I also had a load of money to put through the Coinstar, mostly from a defunked Charity goblet, that I had offered to cash up for Cancer Research. There was a queue, I suppose that is a measure of how bad the recession has got, even adults are breaking into their piggy banks. Or possibly their children’s. But a little kid, in a Chelsea shirt, put 17p in the goblet, while I was waiting. I bought dried pigs ears. We went out to see Manny, and left the dogs trying to make silk purses.

Manny has agreed to the sponsorship deal. Quite readily in fact, maybe we should have asked for more.

Troy and Damien went out to train again. Crumbs!



Wednesday, 13th August

Troy has spent the day organizing the kit, and I have spent the day working through a slow trickle of MRI scans. I went out with Splodge tonight, who I haven’t seen in, maybe, five years. Even though she’s still only twenty one, she’s not changed much, and we spent most of the evening, gossiping, and telling stories about evil Auntie Kym, who her father used to date.

Third night on the trot, for Troy out training.



Thursday, 14th August

Troy has finally taken a night off. I made hot and sour soup, I am a great believer in the restorative properties of well made soup. We watched Cloverfield. If I don’t find a film that I enjoy soon, I may well throw in the towel. The film was very Blair Witch, hand-held, faux real… shit. Thank goodness I have the blog to get done. However, I was amused to see Brooklyn Bridge (not the love child of Chelsea player Wayne, and David Beckham, but the iconic New York landmark) feature in yet another movie. After I am Legend, Escape From New York, War of the Worlds – which was originally set in Woking – and any number of Stephen King novels.

In any event, it is a low rent imitation of Albert Bridge.

Sunday, 10th August

We were denied boarding at either The Castle, or Manny’s, last night, as both were closed for private parties. This sent Troy and I into a tailspin of indecision, Saturday night, pouring with rain, and no convenient watering hole. Eventually we decided to go to the smart Thai behind the house, which has a bar. We had a civilized drink, blogging, and flipping the papers, and I was amazed to be reunited with my copy of The Real Greek At Home, which I had left there back at the end of March. We went home and watched No Country For Old Men. What the fuck was that all about, and who in their right mind thought it was great? I am not having a great time with films at the moment. Rock on Hellboy II. As you can see, I have a highly sophisticated taste in movies. Just like books, the more blood, guts and forensic evidence, the better. Life's too short to stick to the worthy stuff the whole time, or any of the time, come to that.

Down to the Arndale, sorry – Southside Centre, armed with a list of stationery items that Fluffy needs for school. How the hell can a couple of pencils, biros, marker pens, and a rubber add up to £59? Admittedly, twenty quid of that was for a Dymo labeler, all retro style, mechanical, none of your electronic nonsense, just letters squeezed out in white from a coloured plastic strip. Very Seventies. And I probably didn’t need to buy the cute stapler that uses coloured size 10 staples. Or the mini Oreos. But at least most of the stuff was genuinely for Xants. I went into Claire’s Accessories, to buy some hair hoojits for myself, and came out with three pairs of silver earrings for her for £11. So that redressed the balance a bit.

Tonight we are having fillet steak, on crushed potatoes, with tomato petals, and truffle infusion, followed by pineapple soup with fromage frais foam.

I’m enjoying this cooking lark.

A Brush With The Long Arm Of The Law

Friday, 8th August

By the time I left work today I wanted to punch someone. The afternoon had flowed as smoothly as congealed treacle, with unco-operative patients, uninformed nurses (as opposed to uniformed nurses, but quite a lot of them annoyed me too), and daft clinical requests. I tried a little levity with one patient, who was having all her EEG leads removed from her hair, just as I turned up. ‘I’m glad you got rid of those extensions,’ I said, ‘they’re rubbish.’ Not even an eye roll by way of response. I could have punched her, but apparently the GMC frowns on this, deeming it unprofessional.

Parking the car outside our house, I realized that quite a lot of people were in a similar mood, although I have to admit, the baseball bats were an imaginative touch. There was a fair spat of chav on chav violence going on. What would the police term for this be, Operation Croydon Facelift? What about the elderly, OAP on OAP violence – Operation Steradent? Geddit?

But I digress.

I watched the whole thing, so I was a witness, how CSI.

The cops came round later to take a statement, so I had to give them a tour of our trophy lavvy. Four rozzers and me, squished into our downstairs loo, and it’s no Tardis. They oohed over the signed Thierry Henry and England shirts, and aahed over the Beckham boot. Within five minutes of their departure, the Battersea Bugle had roared into life. The story went something like this – Troy and Sarah had their door kicked in by the Flying Squad, then Interpol turned up. And here’s me being a model citizen. For once.


Saturday, 9th August

Had to go into work first thing this morning. Boo! At least everyone was nice, and no pugilistic tendencies emerged. I went back home for lunch, corned beef hash, then went to get my hair cut. Why does it always rain when I go to the hairdressers? Hari came over to say hello, and congratulations. I have been having my hair done there for 23 years, and it’s like family. ‘Have I got a new hair colour for you?’ He said, and sent one of the runners to get a colour look book. ‘There!’ He said proudly. I looked, dutifully, as the photo, as he examined my expression. ‘I can tell you’re not impressed.’ He said. Everybody wanted to look at the wedding photos, and admire Chelm’s handiwork on the big day. Today, she cut it and tucked it up into a chignon, with a quiff. A lot of hairdresser’s will tell you, if you are trying to grow your hair, to have it trimmed every six weeks, to encourage the growth. ‘Don’t come back for six months!’ She shouted after me, as I left, which can’t have gone down very well with Hari.

I went back out onto the Fulham Road, which looked much like the Marie Celeste today. Not that it was boat-shaped when I last looked, which was this afternoon, so that is reliable and up-to-date information. No, it is distinctly road shaped, and indeed with several high-end shop-shaped thingies along either side. And it was… empty. More to the point, so were the high-end shop shaped thingies. I headed to Butler & Wilson. I have decided to update my wardrobe by buying a few in-your-face brooches. Everyone will be so taken with these sparkling monstrosities, that they won’t notice I’m wearing last year’s jackets.

Genius!

Bugger, bugger, bugger

Tuesday, 5th August

I woke up this morning feeling most peculiar, sort of sore throat, coughy and yucky sinuses. My eyes were so puffed I could barely see out. So I decided to give my trip to Hemel a miss. This was just as well, as the M1 was closed, and I probably would never have got there. I lay in bed feeling sorry for myself, until boredom got the better of me, and I had to go get up. Since yesterday the dogs have been doing a weird cough-and-retch thing. To start off with we had thought that they were allergic to crab claws. Then we thought maybe they had a bit of crab stuck in the back of their throats. Now I realize I have the same virus as they have.

For supper tonight, we had chilled melon and parma ham soup, followed by chorizo with tomato rice, and orange sauce.


Wednesday, 6th August

My menu updates on Facebook have been engendering a lot of response. Either annoyance, requests for recipes, or demands to be fed. I need to explain, that I am not cooking to show off, it’s purely to save money. The recession, please not let’s use euphemisms like ‘credit crunch,’ has hit home. My first concessions are to stop eating out, and give up on the expensive face creams. Decided not to take the dogs to the vet, just like GP’s, I think they are far too quick to shovel antibiotics down the younger family members throats.

I went to meet a friend at the Chelsea Arts Club, for a drink, tonight. I had forgotten how it is a mixture of the spectacularly louche, and a local pub. I bumped into lots of people I knew, and stayed far longer than I had intended. Once I got back to Battersea it was far too late to cook, so we went to Manny’s for supper. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.


Thursday 7th, August

What a fucking irritating day, filled with delightful regulars. Went ‘up west’ to see two patients, then had to drive back to Battersea to let the cleaner in. Who didn’t show up. Late, late, late. Yucky tuna sandwich for lunch, and so-called two patients, turned into an epic saga of needles. Resolved today, that the next step in crunch management, is to ramp back on the designer clothing. My winter wardrobe will be constructed from Next, M&S and Oasis – rather than Narcisso Rodriguez, Miu Miu, and Ozzie Clarke. However, when I get as far as my feet, the Louboutins have to stay. You have to treat your feet with respect, after all, you stand on them all day.

Had drink with an another old friend tonight. I was in the taxi my way to the Millenium hotel, to receive a text message from Lis, saying she would be about ten minutes late. Oh great, I thought, and not in a sarcastic way, I can start on my blog. Now, this is a measure of how the recession has kicked in. Two months ago I would have gone – great, I can drop a few hundred quid in Harvey Nicks, before I see her. When I got to the bar I was marginally confused, as opposed to horribly confused, which is my default bar-leaving mode. I could have sworn that it used to be called Mju. Somehow the J had disappeared. Apparently, people got confused and didn’t know how to say it. I always thought it was M-yiuo, like a cat noise. ‘No’ the manager said, ‘people tried to say M-Jew.’ So now that, it’s Mu, I speculated, ‘do I say Moo?’ ‘Er, no ,’ he said, ‘it’s pronounced… Mew.’
Back to The Castle for supper.

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

Wrapit Wraps It Up

Saturday, 2nd August

There was a lock-in at the local last night, which revealed a new social conundrum – when you’re drinking illegally in a pub, do you still go outside to smoke? Bizarrely, most people did, until the manager panicked, a shepherded everyone back in. He then jumped out of his skin every time a police car or ambulance went past. Which in Battersea, on a Friday night, is pretty bloody often. So I woke up with a truly atrocious hangover today. Thank God I had booked a massage. We went to see The Dark Knight, what a pile of tonk. A total waste of 152 minutes of my life. It was too loud, too long, and quite a lot didn’t actually make sense.

Over to Yi-Ban, in Chelsea Harbour for supper. I was deeply disappointed to find that they had taken my favourite chilli salt squid off the money. We ordered a selection of starters, soup and duck. Somehow we ended up having another heavy night. Urrgh. Everyone ended up at our place, and only had the good grace to go home after 2.30, when Troy retired from play, with a terrible migraine.


Sunday, 3rd August

Woke up, if not quite fresh as a daisy, then certainly able to start work at ten. I reported loads of MRI’s, then took myself off to M&S to buy the ingredients for a crab and parma ham linguine. These managed to cost a staggering £26. Every time I go into Marks and Expensive, I promise myself I will never buy food in there again. And, M&Soholic that I am, I do. But that’s it, this time. Really.

I quiet night in with our linguine, and watching the F Word.

Monday, 4th August

It’s official, we won’t be getting any wedding presents, Wrapit has wrapped up. Apparently the guests who paid on credit cards can get a refund, but those who paid by debit card, probably not. In any event it is really embarrassing, having to explain the situation to everyone. I suppose it's a lot worse for young couples who are relying on the gifts, and the staff who've lost their jobs. So I’m not really in a mood chirpy enough to be funny.

I decided to cheer myself up by going to Divertimenti, to buy the giant Le Creuset griddle myself. Unfortunately they didn’t have it. Boo. Next stop Waitrose. Fortunately, today the bits and pieces for duck breast with Madeira and cherry sauce, on a bed of crispy noodles and caramelized red chicory, came to only £12. Result!

So another night in, in front of the cooker.

Work Hard, Play Hard, Work Hard All Over Again

Wednesday, 30th July

Yuck, back in the driving seat. Reported 26 MRI scans by lunchtime, but it’s nice not to have to physically go into work the day after a holiday. Erk, I split an infinitive. Went to the Castle to watch Liverpool play Villarreal, a game so stultifyingly boring that heavy drinking was the only option. The fact that Rafa made nine substitutions, and still came out with a no score draw, and today signed Robbie Keane for £20 squazillion, has convinced me that he has finally lost the plot. Before that, Xanthe and I had planned to go to Harvey Nicks to buy a Paul Smith shirt for my Dad’s birthday, and was slightly surprised to find Perry asking to come along. It turned out that he thought we were going to PC World. Ha, ha, ha! Nevertheless, he was quite taken with a Paul Smith wallet, until he found out how much it was.

Oly failed his audition for a Hovis ad today. I think it's probably because he could: lie down, sit in a chair, and 'speak,' rather more impressively than his co-star - Wayne Rooney.


Thursday, 31st July

Pappou is eighty today. I had such a heavy day at work that I didn’t even get into shower (second of the day) until fifteen minutes before his party. Nearly thirty in total went to Manny’s, and it was great to see so many of the old crowd looking so well, and barely smelling of wee at all. Troy developed a new coterie of admirers. One guest wistfully bemoaned the poor looks of her daughter’s boyfriend. ‘I always thought I would be able to sort of fancy her husband,’ she said. ‘It looks like I’ll just have to fancy yours instead.’ I went into the kitchen to check on Daddy’s surprise cake. ‘Guillaume, ou est le gâteau?’ I asked. ‘Lequel gâteau?’ He asked, innocently. ‘Le gâteau au chocolat, pour mon père.’ ‘Ah, le gâteau au chocolat que j’ai manger?’ ‘Oh, ha! Ha!’ I said in English, as I don’t know how to say it in French. I hope the impact of my irony wasn’t lessened by that inadequacy.

Everyone ate well, and drank well, and looked like they went home happy.


Friday, 1st August

Woke up at seven this morning. I can’t remember the last time I saw seven unnecessarily. I thought about getting up, and then realised that I wouldn’t have the foggiest what to do at that time of the morning. I lay in bed for three hours, holding my sleeping husband’s hand. I heard a great story from a patient today. Being in the RAF, he got posted all over the world for the last twenty-two years. Arriving on a new base in Wales, he was sized up by the locals, ‘You’ll do… an excellent prop, I think.’ Brilliant, he thought - a drama group – wanting some sort of back stage help. ‘No’ came the reply, ‘rugby.’ BTW, I wish I could write Wales in a regional stylie. He turned up on the next Saturday, clutching his football boots and newly purchased gum shield, and was surprised when his new colleagues pounced on him, strapping rings of sticky tape around his head, to protect his ears. ‘Don’t try to catch or throw the ball, just keep an eye on who has it, and if he’s wearing a different fucking shirt from you, trample him.’ And people think rugby isn’t a game for thugs.

Got a weird request through today, for an arm scan, the doctor was worried that there might be a clot somewhere. I decided to seek clarification. ‘This scan you want, what exactly do you want me to look at?’ ‘The um, arm?’ Came the reply. ‘Yes, I’d sort of figured that out,’ I said, ‘but which blood vessels do you want me to look at? Specifically??’ A long silence ensued, and I think I could just about hear Antipodean mental cogs dredging through long-forgotten anatomy. ‘Veins… arm veins… axillary vein!’ He shouted in triumph. God, I love reminding clinicians how much they’ve forgotten.

We went to the Big Easy, on the King’s Road, for supper tonight. Double portion of Voodoo Chicken Wings for Troy, and a medium rare Filet Mignon for me. Why is it only Americans who call it that? Both ends of the social spectrum are to be found there on a Friday night. We arrived to find a couple of blondes with Croydon facelifts, and giant hoop earrings, arguing the toss over whether they’d get a table. They were followed by a Hooray so fat, that he could only be described as a double chin-less wonder. When the chavs left, I noticed that one was inhaling oxygen through nasal specs. Her friend was carrying the bottle of oxygen, and smoking a fag. I can’t wait for the next allocation of Darwin awards.

The waiter came over and asked if we wanted pudding, ‘Got any no-cal desserts?’ I dead-panned. ‘Sorry,’ he retorted, ‘we’re far too Americanised.’