I made the mistake this morning of plucking Nigel Slater’s The Kitchen Diaries off the shelf and opening it to August. I had thought of him because when we were at Claire and Dan’s this weekend I was thumbing through one of his old cookbooks and had said that I would need to get a copy of it and she had graciously given it to me since she had planned to drop it off at a charity shop.

It was a mistake to read the August chapter of the diary because he is going on and on about how lovely and warm the weather is and all of the meals he makes are appropriate to hot weather when today is a bangers and mash day. Rain, rain and more rain. And it’s cold to top it off. Are there really two weeks left of August? I feel like we have landed in a Dr. Who time warp and the date is really November 19th, which is lovely. . . WHEN IT IS NOVEMBER!

Last Wednesday night when we all went out drinking and I consumed all of my alcohol units for the year, I failed to mention that I was wearing wool. A long wool skirt, a long sleeved dress shirt and a wool v-neck jumper. Shoes were long black boots. I was wearing WOOL in August and I wasn’t uncomfortable.

Last weekend the weather was delicious. Warm but not oppressive, lots of big happy sun. When the sun is out in London the world feels like a perfect place. Stuart took me to the zoo because retards love the zoo*. We had read that owl babies had been born so we wanted to see the owl babies.

We got off at Regent’s Park, walked through the park stopping first at a café in the middle for a tasty sausage roll with lots of spicy English mustard. Once we got through the initial queue it didn’t feel too crowded, but there were lots of families. I warned Stuart about this.

“Honey, you know how we are going to the zoo?”

“Yes Thomas?”

“There’s going to be a lot of kids there.”

“Oh no. . .”

I have decided it is not children that I hate, but their parents, but I will save that for another post.

Not long were we there when Stuart said we should bring Emily our niece.

“But then we would be like all the people that you hate.”

“No. It’s different.”

“Because she’s ours?”

“Exactly.”

We weren’t able to see the baby frog mouthed owls (we did see their parents) but didn’t take a picture.

Stuart did however get a great picture of this sleeping barned owl.

We loved that he was balancing on one leg.

The Toucans were lovely as well.

What you can’t see in the picture is how bright blue their eyes are.

The exhibit for the sidewinder annoyed me.

Why is it necessary to show that this snake lives in the southwest of the United States by including a crumbled pack of cigarettes and an empty bottle of Bud?

After a few hours we were zooed out. We still need to see the lions and the bughouse and the gorillas were napping so there will be lots of things to see when we go back with Emily.

As I said, the entire reason I said we went was to see the baby owls which if you read the hyperlink article were only born because of all the rain and crap weather we have been having so I guess I can’t complain too much the weather is wooly. For every season, turn turn turn. . . there is a reason for the crap rubbish weather. Baby owls.

I suppose I am not too grumpy because in addition to crap weather bringing baby owls, in one week, at this moment I will be in Spain. We land in Seville and will be renting a car and winding our way over to Barcelona.

I am dreaming of flamenco, olives and wine. And sun. I am dreaming of sun.

*Rocky Reference. “Take her to the zoo! Retards love the zoo!”

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“What are you making for dinner?’

“Chicken Picatta.”

“What?”

“Lemon chicken.”

“That sounds nice.”

Would you like some?

“Sure.”

I looked to the skies for the coming apocalypse. “Okay. . . I’ll make couscous too.”

“Ooo! Yes.”

Stuart loves couscous. And he’s been marginally better about eating actual carbon based food lately.

I went into Trinity Stores to pick up the couscous and they had the elusive vegetable I have been looking for in Sainsbury’s for months and months. . . artichokes. I grabbed one for me, and then I thought. . . maybe Stuart will like one. Maybe he likes artichokes and he doesn’t KNOW he likes artichokes. I grabbed two.

He walked in the kitchen while I was mincing garlic. I had already chopped off the stems, the top part of the thistle and trimmed the outer leaves and rubbed a cut lemon over all the edges.

“What’s that?” He said with a touch of horror in his voice.

“That. Is an artichoke.” I stuffed the garlic between the leaves, popped them into a pot with a few inches of water and drizzled olive oil on top.

“A. . . waa?”

“Artichoke. And you will be trying one.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to eat the entire thing, but you have to try it.” I sounded like a mother but I didn’t care.

He did a guppy impression.

An hour and a half later we sat down at the table. I had strained the sauce so he didn’t have ‘bits’ (capers and parsley) on his chicken. Fluffy couscous was on his plate. He stared at his artichoke. I plucked a leaf and deftly scraped the tender meat with my bottom teeth. He copied me and made a face.

“It doesn’t taste like anything.”

“Try another one.”

He did.

“It tastes like peas.”

“That’s a lie.” I don’t like peas. I know artichokes don’t taste like peas.

“I don’t like it.”

“Okay. Thank you for trying.”

He ate all of his chicken and had two helpings of couscous.

“Thank you for making dinner honey. It was really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Just don’t make me eat an artichoke again.”

“I won’t make you eat an artichoke again.”

Okay. Now I know he doesn’t like artichokes. He did like my couscous. I of course didn’t tell him that the shallots and garlic had been sautéed in a mushroom infused oil, (never mind that it included shallots and garlic at all). I certainly didn’t tell him about the tablespoon of truffle oil I added at the end.

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*

I blame myself.

There was an ad in a local magazine asking people to either adopt a greyhound or help take them out on walks.

Stuart loves greyhounds so I showed it to him. One of the pictures is a Santa’s Little Helper look alike with huge brown eyes.

Stuart looked at it. “Ohhh!”

“Maybe we could volunteer to walk them.”

“Ohhh!”

“They have a Wimbledon branch.”

“Ohhhhhhh.”

“Sweetie?”

“But then we would want to take one home.”

“We can’t take one home. We can’t have pets and we don’t have a garden.”

I wish we could adopt a dog. I miss having a fuzzy. What was great about my cats was you could leave them alone all day, go out for dinner and they’re okay as long as they have food and water and a clean litter box. Sure they may not be happy with you that you weren’t there worshiping them, but they will be ok.

Dogs, you can’t leave alone in a flat for 12-15 hours unless you like everything chewed up and smelling of poo. Not unless you have a garden.

Yesterday Stuart decided we were going to adopt a greyhound.

“Honey our lease.”

“Leave that to me.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“I think you are just going to bring a dog in here when we aren’t supposed to have one.”

“Pffft.”

“And we don’t have a garden.”

“We’ll hire a dog walker.”

I did a quick bit of research and I found a walker in our area that charges ten quid an hour. Times that by five working days and you are talking about fifty quid a week.

All day long Stuart was making plans about the dog. I started to be a bit caught up in it and did some research online and looked at dog personals. But I just knew it would end badly.

“Honey, we would never be able to meet after work for dinner. We’d have to come home first to let the dog out. I think we should wait until of lease is up and then move into a flat with a garden. If you are willing to get a dog walker than you should be willing to pay an extra 200 pounds toward rent.”

“Okay. . .”

He looked like a little boy and I felt like a mean mom.

*This is a picture of Charlie. This is the doggie that I fell in love with looking at the pictures.

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Putting groceries away in the refrigerator Thursday night and Stuart comes up behind me, puts his hands on my hips. I don’t know why, but when he does something like that, it makes me feel smaller than I am. Maybe that’s why I am with him.

I turned around and kissed him. Not a peck- not a high school make out session. . . a Goldie Locks just right snog especially when you are in the middle of doing things and you would rather not be interrupted and you know he is in the middle of things and he won’t let you try to interrupt him.

He tasted of beer.

I pulled away. Sniffed his lips, scrunched up my face with the weight of the calculation. . . “One and a half beers.”

Stuart was gobsmacked.

“How did you do that?!”

I shrugged.

It was a lucky guess with a mixture of Sherlock Holmsing. His breath didn’t reek like it does when he has been in the pub for 13 hours. I knew about the time he came home. I knew the relative time it takes him to drink a pint, then I divided that by 3.14159 and voila the answer was 1.5.

He left a half hour after that and met a friend in a pub. I didn’t do the maths when he came home but I’m inferring a total of seven.

I didn’t check my calculations however and I stayed up until two polishing off a bottle of wine while he went to bed. When I did get to bed I had strange dreams that I can’t remember. In the morning Stuart told me that I was chattering in my sleep.

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know. I was sleeping.”

I guess I should be happy I didn’t do any neked’ sleepwalking . . .

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I mentioned that I want to start lifting free weights again, so for my birthday I asked for a bench and that is what I received. Stuart had it shipped to his work, this big ridiculous heavy box that he could barely lift. It stayed in the office for a few weeks while he begged everyone he knew with a car to schlep it home until he eventually got a cab and brought it here last week. He said that he was allowed the delay since my birthday wasn’t until Monday and I am inclined to agree with him.

He took it out of the box this weekend and of course there were no instructions so he didn’t sit down to put it together until last night after they faxed them to him. I refused to tackle it. The exploded view scared me.

It was a huge pile of various size washers and bolts and bits and bobs. Stuart was on his 2nd beer wrestling with it when he said, “I don’t think this is fair. Why do I have to do this?”

“We can wait and ask your dad to do it.”

“That’s mean. I can do it. I can build things. I just don’t like to. I’m I.T..”

But he persevered. After a few hours it was all put together and it looks like it is supposed to and it looks safe.

“You better blog about how great I am for doing this.”

“Okay honey.”

“And I want sexual favours.”

“Okay sweetie.”

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My mobile was ringing. I have the day off, so everyone knows better than to call me at this hour. Calling someone at 8:30 on your day off is a sin. It was Stuart.

“Why? Sleeping. Lay-In. Sleeping. Why????” When half awake I revert to caveman language.

“They found a bomb near Haymarket.”

This woke me up.

“A car bomb. Piccadilly is closed. Just keep your eyes open today.”

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My mini mac died. I don’t know what happened. One day it was fine, the next not so good. Is not that big of a deal I still have my four (or is it five) year old powerbook and Stuart put a new hard drive back in the mini so it is working. I just don’t have lot what I had on there. The only thing I care about is my itunes. I had playlists I really liked on it and some mix cds I had done.

I am in a blog group that sends mix cds to each other and you are supposed to review them. I’m behind on my reviews at the moment. One recent CD was all love songs. The one I just finished on Saturday was all fuck songs. I was really proud of it. . .found some great really raunchy blues tunes. I was also halfway through a drinking song mix.

We’re talking about hours of work. Plus I had just bought some music- Only 20 quid or so. . . but still.

Stuart is seeing what he can salvage from it, but I am not really optimistic.

It’s not the end of the world. I have most of the music on the powerbook, but anyone who has spent an hour here or there for a number of evenings playing with their iTunes can appreciate that it kinda bites.

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Since we have lived in our flat, our freezer has looked like something out of a horror film. Stuart had left some cans of coke that exploded caramel colour crap everywhere. Because the three of us kept buying food, it was difficult to find a time to defrost it so we all sort of ignored the horror. When Jen moved out, I suggested to Stuart that he defrost and clean it. He didn’t take too kindly to the idea.

Weeks went by. I went to Seattle. Came back. Open the freezer and I could hear angels singing in the heavens. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Not only did he defrost the freezer, he cleaned the refrigerator as well.

I gave him a big kiss. After nearly two years of the black lagoon living with our ice cubes, this wasn’t a small thing.

Today Andrew was at my desk when a wedding card was being passed around for a colleague. “Nicole, what’s the difference between being single and being married?”

I thought about it. “Well. When you’re single, you can do what you want to do when you want to do it. When you’re married, when you come home, sometimes the freezer has been defrosted and the fridge cleaned.”

We both laughed.

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Stuart organised a work do at Urban Golf, which is right by my old office in Soho. Urban Golf is full of media wankers drinking Stella, paying a ridiculous amount of scratch to play a golf simulator.

It is supposed to be a lot of fun. . .

Stuart texts me.

Stuart: I’m crap at golf.

Nicole: This surprises you?

Stuart: It went backwards.

I don’t think I have wished to witness something so much, ever.

-update-

He called me and suggested we get away this weekend. Then he sounded beyond depressed. “I gotta go. I’m up.”

Five minutes later he texted me:

They fucked with me. I came back from talking to you and I had to golf over hurdles. Like real Olympic style thingies.

I must remember to buy his work mates something special.

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Thomas? Thomas Cole? Don’t ever leave for so long again. I fucking missed you. I can leave on business trips but you can’t go for so long.

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