Saturday, 17 November 2012

Grouchiness and Jewellery

I slept like proverbial merde last night. Not even dancing in a tube station with Nick Grimshaw (in my dream, obviously) lightened my mood this morning, particularly since getting up I have fallen down the stairs quite possibly breaking the bones of my middle and ring fingers; been shivering with cold because the gas fire has broken down; and to top it all I can't read The Times because my mum swiped it before I could get the crossword, leaving me with only the Saturday pullouts.

OK, so I haven't really broken my fingers. I can't have because I'm typing this blog. And I have put on my oriental-style dressing-gown as an extra layer. I might look ridiculous but my core temperature has risen to a smidgeon above zero. But I'm still grumpy because the special magazine Luxx is full of overpriced jewellery and bold titles exhorting me to 'BUY IT NOW, LOVE IT FOREVER'. No. Shan't. You can't make me, bold titles or not.

The problems I have with urges of spending such as this one is that I probably won't love it forever. In fact, I probably won't love it to begin with - it (whatever 'it' may be) is an inanimate object that will most likely break, get lost, or delight me for a limited time before I eventually grow bored and throw it out of the window of my Lamborghini (in my mind). Secondly, the price. There is a lovely little pearl necklace with a diamond seal clasp, price on application. Since when does one have to apply for jewellery? It's not a university process. Are they going to ask why a person wants a necklace? Isn't that obvious? We're certainly not going to coat it in Dulux paint and hide it in a cheesecake. Besides which, if there is no price, there can be no doubt whatever that the item in question will cost you your liver and possibly a lung, if you can spare it. Thirdly, I, personally, have grown weary of the bombardment from fashion magazines and similar adverts of that ilk. Shiny, sparkly things are all very lovely but only when one has a place to wear them. At the moment, my current prospects for social engagements are looking wafer thin, so thin they're more like vapour. If I came gliding (or indeed falling) down the stairs decked in Cleopatra glitz, I fear a comparison to Miss Havisham would swiftly be made and a straightjacket produced. You have no idea what we manage to keep in our garage.

Speaking of which, my dad has been asking whether we have any hyperdermic syringes to inject some questionable substance into the marzipan he's making. I'm terrified what this might mean for the Christmas cake.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

The Fall of the Bourgeoise Forest

On the way to the supermarket, driving past the Ginn House (spiffing local pub), a red squirrel scampered up the grassy bank and darted under one of the hedges. I swear it was going for the back door of the pub. It was probably intent on pilfering the nutty nibbles that often conveniently lie in strategically placed bowls along the drink-stained wooden bar, unless the woodland creatures have finally done the sensible thing and succumbed to alcohol.

With the devastating news that a great number of their arboreal shelters are under threat from disease due to bad luck (debatable) and human error (indisputable), our furry little friends have become so depressed that drink is the only answer: the only squirrels we'll now ever see are the ones, thin and morose, clutching a pint glass, propped up at bars and pubs nationwide, glumly reminiscing about the golden age of sylvan beauty, and the Darwinian way animals got on with it.

Comforting Squirrel would be Rabbit, who would have deferred to wise old Badger except that Badger has an ASBO because he is a rank carrier of tubercolosis and so he has to wait in the car park outside to avoid angry farmers disappointed by the decision to delay the cull. 'Anyway,' he thinks, packing his pipe with tobacco, 'can't smoke in there.' Deer keeps Badger company because he is disgusted by a set of antlers tastelessly on display above the bar. His wife has no such compunctions, however, and is on her third gin and tonic decrying the government for squeezing the bourgeoisie. Outside, Deer and Badger settle for a game of cards by the Bentley; loser has to moonwalk round the carpark whilst reciting irregular Latin verbs.

Hedgehog and his family are in the kitchens scouring plates, after a pact with the landlord saved them from being written off as useless, rabies-riddled scroungers of society. Of course, the rest of the animals don't speak to them any more: they are outcasts and traitors, may their prickles soften in the soapy washing-up-liquid water.

At the end of it all, Squirrel is drunk and still crying into Rabbit's shoulder (or haunch), asking why the Animals of Farthing Wood haven't come to save them then promptly rushing outside only to vomit over Badger's slightly worn brogues. Badger sighs, exasperated. What a terrible waste of merlot.