My friend Petunia isn’t around this week. She’s gone home to ‘get it out of the way for the year.’ When she phrased it like that it made me laugh; I understood her all too well. Sometimes going “home” is just an obligation. Possibly with enjoyable aspects (catching up with friends and those members of the family that don’t drive you crazy), but an obligation nonetheless with the associated expense and inconvenience.
With Petunia gone for a week I wonder how I will satisfy my craving for a pint and a bowl of chips.
The Mista, being in the throes of draconian food discipline, won’t do . As an example: yesterday when we went to the pub to get a pint after our long day of garden work and I casually mentioned I’d like a bowl of chips with my cold, hard-earned lager, he looked at me askance.
“Do you have to get a bowl of chips? I’m trying to be good.”
Inside I winced. I really, really wanted a bowl of chips, a bowl of chips onto which I would apply a generous helping of salt, something else the Mista has admirably denied himself.
I’ve given this weekend over the Mista*, so I didn’t complain or wheedle or try to convince the Mista that my ordering a bowl of chips should have no bearing on his good intentions.
You don’t have to have any.
I didn’t tell him so. Instead, I ordered a chipless pint and wondered to myself when might I satisfy this craving.
Normally, Petunia, my partner in crime, and I would steal some weekend time for a girlie pint and bowl of chips. A caper made all the worse by mayonnaise dipping, an activity Petunia introduced to both me and the Mista. The Mista embraced mayo on chips before I did. I’ve never been able to stand ketchup; I couldn’t imagine adulterating the salt of my chips with anything else. Now I quite like a bit of mayo with my salt and chips. And pint. Let’s not forget the accompanying pint.
And I must be something of an addict. I’m actually entertaining the idea of going to the pub alone. All for a bowl of chips. And pint.
When is Petunia getting back?
*For reasons which will be obvious tomorrow.
I’m looking up ‘anger’ in the online thesaurus because I’m getting ready to blog about it. I’m full of bile and hatred and annoyance with colleagues and commuters and customers alike. I need words to describe the slow burn irritability I’m feeling.
I know where this living-on-the-edge-of-a-tantrum comes from.
I did mention heavy breasts a couple days back, didn’t I?
It amuses me that among the synonyms listed under ‘anger’ I find ‘blood of a bitch’ — especially amusing as I consider the self-diagnosed source of my current state of venomous dissatisfaction.
What’s more interesting is that there is no asterisk next to ‘blood of a bitch’. According to the the footnote in the online thesaurus, the asterisk connotes slang or informal speech. I’m tickled pink (a slang / informal term to describe my gleeful satisfaction) that ‘blood of a bitch’ is not considered slang or informal. I will use it tomorrow at every opportunity.
