I have been so rubbish at updating my blog. I'm sure this must happen to many people, when you start off writing a blog you imagine you will be very regimented and dedicated, however I have been neither.
So I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to write about something I always have something to talk about... food. There have been several people who have said to me over the last month or so that I should write a food blog. My favourite question for any time of the day is "what are you having/had for breakfast/lunch/dinner." I am just fascinated by peoples eating habits, and although I'm sure people won't be as fascinated by mine, particularly with my standard breakfast of weetabix or my salad for lunch, I thought I'd give it a whirl.
I'll be talking about what I'm eating, what I want to eat, where I want to eat, which cookery books are nice, I might even share with you any nice tipples I consume.
So you call check it out on - http://onthegallamenutoday.blogspot.com/
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Summer shower shoes
What shoes are you supposed to wear in the summer when it rains?
I discovered this morning that I have no suitable shoes to wear when summer showers hit. I felt a little lost when I realised that I couldnt wear my flip flops unless I wanted sodden feet and jeans by the time I got the the office. Next in line was my platform sandals - still keeping the summer vibe, but high enough to keep my tootsies dry and off the wet ground. Not exactly the most practical in the rain though, so I cast them by the wayside. These thoughts also trnafered to a selection of strappy heels, also not appropriate for the downpour.
So instead I thought perhaps I could wear some kind of trainer - I couldnt bare the thought of going to work in my scruffy pink pumas, so I contemplated putting on my crisp white pumps, but dirty London pavements and torrential rain would be sure to turn them to grey in no time at all.
So somewhat ridiculously in the middle of August I have opted for my trusty old winter boots with my skinny jeans tucked inside. They worked splendidly this morning keeping my feet bone dry, however now sat at my desk they are getting a little hot and am now getting a little concerned that if this rain persists I have no idea what to wear tomorrow. I'm thinking wellies.
I discovered this morning that I have no suitable shoes to wear when summer showers hit. I felt a little lost when I realised that I couldnt wear my flip flops unless I wanted sodden feet and jeans by the time I got the the office. Next in line was my platform sandals - still keeping the summer vibe, but high enough to keep my tootsies dry and off the wet ground. Not exactly the most practical in the rain though, so I cast them by the wayside. These thoughts also trnafered to a selection of strappy heels, also not appropriate for the downpour.
So instead I thought perhaps I could wear some kind of trainer - I couldnt bare the thought of going to work in my scruffy pink pumas, so I contemplated putting on my crisp white pumps, but dirty London pavements and torrential rain would be sure to turn them to grey in no time at all.
So somewhat ridiculously in the middle of August I have opted for my trusty old winter boots with my skinny jeans tucked inside. They worked splendidly this morning keeping my feet bone dry, however now sat at my desk they are getting a little hot and am now getting a little concerned that if this rain persists I have no idea what to wear tomorrow. I'm thinking wellies.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
D'ya know what I mean.... innit?
I am not particularly "street" with my language. I am not one of those people who feels it necessary to finish every sentence with 'innit, or d'ya know what I mean. Whilst getting my nails done at the weekend I discovered a new phrase, which is simply... "do you know".
At the weekend whilst getting my nails done I was making polite conversation with the nail lady asking her the usual questions, where does she live, how long has she been in the job, etc, etc, when I noticed her strange tendency to use the term. The conversations went something like this:
Nail lady: I was off ill last week.
Me: Oh no, poor you. What was wrong?
Nail lady: Well, you know antibiotics....
Me: Yeah
Nail lady: Well I had to take antibiotics because I had an ear infection.
Right
....
Me: So what does your boyfriend do then?
Nail lady: Umm, do you know management?
ME: Er, yes (I am familar with this term).
Nail lady: Well he works in business management.
I am seriously hoping this doesnt catch on.
At the weekend whilst getting my nails done I was making polite conversation with the nail lady asking her the usual questions, where does she live, how long has she been in the job, etc, etc, when I noticed her strange tendency to use the term. The conversations went something like this:
Nail lady: I was off ill last week.
Me: Oh no, poor you. What was wrong?
Nail lady: Well, you know antibiotics....
Me: Yeah
Nail lady: Well I had to take antibiotics because I had an ear infection.
Right
....
Me: So what does your boyfriend do then?
Nail lady: Umm, do you know management?
ME: Er, yes (I am familar with this term).
Nail lady: Well he works in business management.
I am seriously hoping this doesnt catch on.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Middle of the season sales
Why do shops always have an end of season sale right in the middle of the 'season'.
I have been attempting to buy a bikini this week. Surely with it being July and the first week of the school 'summer holidays' there should be some summery clothes still around, but no, you are very much mistaken.
There are literally none around and those that are left are either sized 24 (which my little boobies would be more than a little overwhelmed in), or are a putrid lime green leopard skin design, not to my taste exactly.
I can't imagine how these people on 'winter sun' holidays manage.
I have been attempting to buy a bikini this week. Surely with it being July and the first week of the school 'summer holidays' there should be some summery clothes still around, but no, you are very much mistaken.
There are literally none around and those that are left are either sized 24 (which my little boobies would be more than a little overwhelmed in), or are a putrid lime green leopard skin design, not to my taste exactly.
I can't imagine how these people on 'winter sun' holidays manage.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Don't mess with your bangers
Why when you go to a sausage shop do you have to opt for the oddest flavour sausages possible? You never go for the standard pork and apple or even wild boar, whose meaty flavour will perfectly complement the mash and gravy you had planned to accompany it. Oh no, instead you opt for something strange, something like a thai chicken sausage, which of course you will not treat like an Asian ingredient and instead try to serve it alongside peas and cabbage ultimately creating something akin to scraps from the bottom of the bin.
Mr P and I took a stroll down to our local sausage shop at the weekend and decided to pick up a selection of sausages. I was strangely tempted by the marmite so we asked for two of them, along with two nice traditional lamb and rosemary and then two spicy Argentinean, which looked slightly more like chorizo, but I felt convinced it was nothing a bit of Bisto couldn't handle... oh how wrong could i be.
I've learnt a valuable lesson and one which I will share with you all.. you shouldn't mess with your bangers and mash.
Mr P and I took a stroll down to our local sausage shop at the weekend and decided to pick up a selection of sausages. I was strangely tempted by the marmite so we asked for two of them, along with two nice traditional lamb and rosemary and then two spicy Argentinean, which looked slightly more like chorizo, but I felt convinced it was nothing a bit of Bisto couldn't handle... oh how wrong could i be.
I've learnt a valuable lesson and one which I will share with you all.. you shouldn't mess with your bangers and mash.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Come fly with me
I'm not a big fan of flying, in fact I have what is known in the aviation trade as "The Fear".
Most of my holidays start with me being dosed up on valium and beta-blockers and consuming large amounts of Sauvignon Blanc just in order to help me board. Then there's the obligatory crying and hyperventilating on take-off, before settling into the permenant terror with the realisation that there is nothing other than a 35,000 foot drop beneath my feet. Poor Mr P has had his fingers crunched by my sweaty hands so often, it's a wonder we're still together.
Anyway this fear is getting to be a bit of a pain, not letting me look forward to my holidays, stopping me from travelling much further than the south of spain, etc. Mr P has also booked a flight for us on September 11th, as it's cheaper on hat day apparently (I can't think why), so I decided to try and conquer this fear before it got a little out of hand.
So this Sunday I toddled off to Gatwick for the Virgin Atlantic Fear of Flying course - a full ten hours of brain training and pilot chatter before boarding a plane from Gatwick all the way to Costa del Gatwick.
When I got there I wasn't feeling my best, but then who does at 8.15 on a sunday having shared a train carriage with a smelly man who looked slightly like Jonny Depp (but not in a good way, in a scraggly Piratey way). I was more than a little surprised to see a queue of around 200 people snaking through the local Holiday Inn where our course would be held.
As the day went on I came to realise I was not the worst of those with 'The Fear'. Many had never flown, or had not flown for 20-odd years. Even whilst queing for registration several members of the group sporadically burst into tears and were taken off into a side room for a chat with a psychologist. I have to admit I was more than a little curious of what they got told in this room as they all managed to make it onto the plane afterwards...
During the day we were talked through the mechanics of flying by pilots, and psychologists shared their anxiety techniques with us, which for the most part were very useful, however I'm not sure I'll be tapping my face and under my arm-pit anytime soon unless I want the people with the white jackets to come after me.
We also had to list as a group what are biggest fears are, which is all well and good, however this scared the heeby-jeebies out of me with people mentioning things I hadnt even thought of before. I now have a few more things to be looking out for whilst I'm on a plane - the flaps on the plane coming off, the pilot having a heart attack..., as you can imagine the list goes on.
On making our way through the airport everyone was feeling positive, despite the odd glances we kept receiving from people looking at our name stickers plastered on our clothing. They must of thought we were on a special day out.
The flight was smooth, with little turbulance and a soft landing (plus a round of applause). The take off would too have been ok if it weren't for the person further back down the plane who must have mistaken the plane for a ride on a big dipper and was screaming at the top of her lungs, slightly unsettling to say the least.
I can't say I am now ride of 'the fear', but I would say I am now armed with plenty of knowledge to help me fight it and Mr P's fingers will hopefully not get quite so squished come September 11th.
Most of my holidays start with me being dosed up on valium and beta-blockers and consuming large amounts of Sauvignon Blanc just in order to help me board. Then there's the obligatory crying and hyperventilating on take-off, before settling into the permenant terror with the realisation that there is nothing other than a 35,000 foot drop beneath my feet. Poor Mr P has had his fingers crunched by my sweaty hands so often, it's a wonder we're still together.
Anyway this fear is getting to be a bit of a pain, not letting me look forward to my holidays, stopping me from travelling much further than the south of spain, etc. Mr P has also booked a flight for us on September 11th, as it's cheaper on hat day apparently (I can't think why), so I decided to try and conquer this fear before it got a little out of hand.
So this Sunday I toddled off to Gatwick for the Virgin Atlantic Fear of Flying course - a full ten hours of brain training and pilot chatter before boarding a plane from Gatwick all the way to Costa del Gatwick.
When I got there I wasn't feeling my best, but then who does at 8.15 on a sunday having shared a train carriage with a smelly man who looked slightly like Jonny Depp (but not in a good way, in a scraggly Piratey way). I was more than a little surprised to see a queue of around 200 people snaking through the local Holiday Inn where our course would be held.
As the day went on I came to realise I was not the worst of those with 'The Fear'. Many had never flown, or had not flown for 20-odd years. Even whilst queing for registration several members of the group sporadically burst into tears and were taken off into a side room for a chat with a psychologist. I have to admit I was more than a little curious of what they got told in this room as they all managed to make it onto the plane afterwards...
During the day we were talked through the mechanics of flying by pilots, and psychologists shared their anxiety techniques with us, which for the most part were very useful, however I'm not sure I'll be tapping my face and under my arm-pit anytime soon unless I want the people with the white jackets to come after me.
We also had to list as a group what are biggest fears are, which is all well and good, however this scared the heeby-jeebies out of me with people mentioning things I hadnt even thought of before. I now have a few more things to be looking out for whilst I'm on a plane - the flaps on the plane coming off, the pilot having a heart attack..., as you can imagine the list goes on.
On making our way through the airport everyone was feeling positive, despite the odd glances we kept receiving from people looking at our name stickers plastered on our clothing. They must of thought we were on a special day out.
The flight was smooth, with little turbulance and a soft landing (plus a round of applause). The take off would too have been ok if it weren't for the person further back down the plane who must have mistaken the plane for a ride on a big dipper and was screaming at the top of her lungs, slightly unsettling to say the least.
I can't say I am now ride of 'the fear', but I would say I am now armed with plenty of knowledge to help me fight it and Mr P's fingers will hopefully not get quite so squished come September 11th.
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