dimanche 25.03.07 Ruth’s Reasonable Rationing
I’m dying this morning. Not just for cool water and fresh air but for some support and substance. My cool water fix comes in the form of a cold water cascade straight from the shower nozzle and a half litre of Chanflor straight out of the fridge. Out on the terrace I avail of the fresh air; my head and my smelly shoes are both need an airing. My boyfriend Fergal needs to vent to his airhead girlfriend and I need a new alarm clock as the faint buzz-buzz of my mobile is really ineffective as I sleep through six of his attempts to call me. Support is needed for my foot. My Left Foot. I did it in on Thursday. It couldn’t have been an unidentified drinking injury as it was only after midday when I felt the twinge and saw it swell like a toad in the rain.
I’ll be housebound for most of the week as my ankle is still quiet tender but I entertain myself with the army ration box I got at the open day yesterday. As last night’s antics didn’t warrant breakfast this morning I’m looking forward to trying out both meals today. The selection however is pitiful. There’s a lot in there but I don’t think I’d survive on it – and I’m not a picky eater. Everything stinks of extra-strong mint chewing gum. I was looking forward to having some new biscuits to dunk in my tea but they’re only worthy for feeding ducks. The caramel sweets are the best of a bad bunch so I can only hazard a guess as to how rank the tinned meals will be. However, I’m pleasantly surprised by the Volaille à la Parisienne; I’ve had worse school dinners.
Arlette has family over for a farewell do before she heads to France to visit her continental chums. The kids are constantly chastised for climbing the fruit trees but they ignore their batty granny and ratty mother.
I’m dying this morning. Not just for cool water and fresh air but for some support and substance. My cool water fix comes in the form of a cold water cascade straight from the shower nozzle and a half litre of Chanflor straight out of the fridge. Out on the terrace I avail of the fresh air; my head and my smelly shoes are both need an airing. My boyfriend Fergal needs to vent to his airhead girlfriend and I need a new alarm clock as the faint buzz-buzz of my mobile is really ineffective as I sleep through six of his attempts to call me. Support is needed for my foot. My Left Foot. I did it in on Thursday. It couldn’t have been an unidentified drinking injury as it was only after midday when I felt the twinge and saw it swell like a toad in the rain.
I’ll be housebound for most of the week as my ankle is still quiet tender but I entertain myself with the army ration box I got at the open day yesterday. As last night’s antics didn’t warrant breakfast this morning I’m looking forward to trying out both meals today. The selection however is pitiful. There’s a lot in there but I don’t think I’d survive on it – and I’m not a picky eater. Everything stinks of extra-strong mint chewing gum. I was looking forward to having some new biscuits to dunk in my tea but they’re only worthy for feeding ducks. The caramel sweets are the best of a bad bunch so I can only hazard a guess as to how rank the tinned meals will be. However, I’m pleasantly surprised by the Volaille à la Parisienne; I’ve had worse school dinners.
Arlette has family over for a farewell do before she heads to France to visit her continental chums. The kids are constantly chastised for climbing the fruit trees but they ignore their batty granny and ratty mother.
I leave the other tinned-meal aside as Fred pops around to celebrate his birthday with us and a bottle of champagne. He was at the same beach as Nicola today and she got a lift home with him – it seems odd but the champagne numbs our suspicions and our worries about the Belgium tax problem… there’s always tomorrow.
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