Dogs, Chickens and Vintage China

Although the terminator boot was turning me into an insomniac who was watching entire series on TV in one sitting and eventually falling asleep just as the sun was coming up, it did allow me to dispense with the crutches and and walk around a bit more.  Cooking became a non wheeled activity, being able to use both hands...at the same time...whilst standing up, makes everything easier. I may have mentioned in a previous post that we had a double glazing firm come round and in a fit of madness I decided to get a new window in the sitting room. I did this on my own whilst Helen was at the gym. When she went out we had just told the man very politely that we didn't need any new windows, when she came back I had spent £2000 on a new window.  To be fair it was a completely new window, as in, they had to cut a new hole in the wall to fit it. It's all very well ordering new windows, basically because you are bored, but it has unforeseen consequences, in my case it precipitated the...

Nobody tells you when you embark on the post surgery journey that sleep may become optional.  As I have alluded to before I am a strict 8 hours a night man, more if possible, 10 or even 12 hours have been known. Of course in the days after surgery you can expect sleep to be fairly erratic but then a hefty dose of opiate based pain killer nearly always sorts that nonsense out post haste. Another reason for erratic sleeping can be the aforementioned claustrophobia of the foot when encased immovably in a plaster cast and this certainly has been the case.  I couldn't wait to get Horris...the plaster cast, I've been very remiss in doing updates so you may have forgotten that for reasons best forgotten I called the plaster cast Horris...I couldn't wait to get him removed and consigned to whatever hell is reserved for evil plaster casts. I had luxuriated in a bath and spent a pleasurable half an hour or so removing dead skin and I was now back in the bed having eaten tea, watc...

All in all it was a very  unusual visit to the hospital . I have spent, what seems like several years of my life waiting in hospital waiting rooms to be poked, prodded and variously interfered with in the name of medical science. All of these occasions share something in common, the rooms outside the actual Doctors lair are named very accurately, waiting rooms,  rooms for waiting in. Hospitals thrive on making you wait...for interminable amounts of time...usually suffering a degree of low grade terror as you contemplate where they are going to stick the horse needle this time.  This visit was markedly different, I'm fairly sure that they had clocked that I was on my own and my method of travel was remarkably like a geriatric crab and about as fast.  Every time that I arrived somewhere I barely had time to sit down before some blasted health worker would hoick me out of my seat and send me off orienteering through the bowels of the hospital.  This even applied to...

Last night I cooked tea...oh alright for the posh among you, I cooked dinner...growing up in 70's suburban Bristol, 'dinner' was what you had in the middle of the day...what? of course it is, why do you think dinner ladies are called 'dinner' ladies, they don't come to your house at 6 o'clock in the evening do they?...however I yet again digress. Whatever it is called, last night I cooked it, and not from a perambulating office chair...what do you mean, you have no idea what I'm wittering on about?...I have to use the office chair because of the cast...not ringing any bells? OK, ok, I'll give you some back story, I've had an operation on my ankle that left me in a plaster cast for an unconscionable amount of time...for reasons known only to me the plaster cast was called Horris. In the past I have complained vociferously about Horris and his unreasoning hatred of my toes, well last Wednesday Horris got his comeuppance. Another visit to the plas...

There is nothing quite so frightening as a blank sheet of paper...or in these digitised days a blank Word document...I have the urge to write but nothing comes to mind whatsoever. I am surrounded by the detritus of pseudo illness, the scruffily unmade bed...inhabited by a sadly expanding fat man and an elderly off white, wheezing terrier...oh, alright, only the fat man, the terrier has now buggered off to investigate more interesting happenings in the kitchen. Oh hang on...the entire household has now buggered off...I am left in a ringing silence, punctuated by the ticking of the clock above my head and the incessant whirr of the fans in the two computer servers under the desk.  It's past 10 o'clock and I have not bothered to dress, I am lying clad only in a pair of elegant blue boxer shorts, a black tee shirt lightly dusted with beard dandruff...yeah I know, disgusting...and the ubiquitous orange cast...oh, come on, how can the cast be ubiquitous? Well, yes, I know it can...

As promised...only to Nic mind you... the recipe for mango pickle. I have adapted the original recipe slightly, you can view it here  https://www.vegrecipesofindia.com/gujarati-mango-pickle-recipe-methia-keri/ , this is the most amazing site for authentic indian recipes and is well worth a visit. However...come on, you know I can't resist the lure of a good however...if you faithfully follow this recipe I can guarantee two things.  It will be hotter than the furthest reaches of hell and the amount of salt will instantly push your blood pressure to previously unseen heights, I reduced both of these somewhat. I can't get green mangoes either so I just use the least ripe ones I can get, you lucky Australians can do this properly. Ingredients: 3 large mangoes - not sure of the weight the original recipe calls for 1kg green mangoes cubed ¾ cup whole fenugreek seeds - these will need splitting in a grinder ½ cup split mustard seeds - I didn't have split mustard seed...

Forgive me world for I have sinned, it has been 5 days since my last confession...it has honest...I know for most of you it's not long enough but it is the longest I have gone since the foot butchery. I am still lying in bed...in the last week I have poured warm urine over myself twice...really, twice and I am, to all intents and purposes a proper adult, I've got a mortgage and a garden and everything. It's all down to having galloping insomnia, for instance yesterday, I finally managed to beat the foot into submission at around half past midnight with the aid of both codeine and eventually morphine after the codeine admitted defeat. I woke again at 0330 with an urgent desire to take a leak. Now, bear in mind I'm hardly in full possession of my faculties but I grab the pee bottle and manoeuvre into a sitting position to do the deed. Once I had finished I reached for the lid and completely forgot about the bottle, the neck of which, sank down just enough to pour warm...