Qug

Why and how is that not a word?

Lost at Scrabble, lost at rugby. Simultaneously.

Goodbye,

Consette x

Cowpat Cookies

They have been christened Cowpat Cookies. When I get access to the necessary cables I shall be uploading the pictures in all their steamy glory. She was inspired by emotional Mat with one T winning Masterchef last night and has upped the ante in the kitchen; today saw the birth of The Biggest Biscuits in Existence (caesarean section) and pollo con pomodoro in tecia (chicken and tomatoes). Granny politely ate the entirety.

Home is good. The idiot is being most productive. Very little work has been achieved. She has, however, gone on 2 dog walks, made and consumed alot of food, and scrubbed a mystery brown smudge off the carpet at the top of the stairs. Oh, and scrawled a terrible poem onto some tracing paper. The poetry has stalled somewhat since last term. She needs a love interest, possibly, like that Fiennes chap in Shakespeare in Love...or she could just appropriate some of my ditties on chunky blonde.

So I know a chunky blonde,
A blonde of whom I'm fond,
With hair like custard,
(But breath like mustard),
And an expression perpetually monged.

Consette x

Cooking doesn't. Get tougher. Than this.

I'm going to attempt this as a Greg and John dialogue, and all words must be shouted as if someone is jabbing an egg whisk between their shoulder blades:

Greg: This - is - it, John.

John: Things could not be more tense right now.

Greg: These three EXCEPTIONAL cooks trying to make it as professionals.

John: And tonight they face their toughest challenge yet.

Greg: Tell you what, I'm on the edge of my seat.

John: Its the finals. Of Masterchef.

Greg: Gentlemen. Let's cook.

Ill be watching. Will you?

Consette x

Homebound

Going to get the 'Mid-Station Blues' perhaps, between Liverpool St. and Waterloo and all the scum inbetween. The idiot loves it, apple cores and soggy butts, concrete, men in suits, sweat and stubbly underarms on the tube. She has bizarre notions of romanticism. Then it's on down South Westerly to look after various addendums of the homely hearth. Namely dog and grandmother. I don't know, I'm quite pleased to be going back. She can work on her poetry for a few days (that's what she says she'll do) and perhaps make a start on these essays, and I can lie on the bed and dream of chunky blonde, who has more associations in Somerset than in East Anglia.

She ate much food yesterday, and none of it constituting the holy 5. A Rocky Road Rachel, and so much licking of spoons, pans and fingers to dab up the Rich Tea dust, and a pancake party in the evening. Now she feels a bit sick, still at 12pm. Should be a fun journey,

Yours in Somerset country slacks,

Consette x

Puncake

The inventory of pancakes:

lemon and brown sugar
apple and cinnamon and maple syrup
lemon and brown sugar

yes.

So what to give up tomorrow? I think I may take up something instead, adopt a child, grow a willy. It's a more positive move.

Consette x

Magners

Hm yes I approve of the move to cider consumption at 3 in the afternoon. I approve wholeheartedly.

Milkbar and Bare-feet festival yesterday was goodness. But what IS rockabilly? What does it sound like? That's what I want to know.

Consette x

Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants

Things started pretty inauspiciously. We were stapled in by about four couples slurping away to themselves and looking foggy-eyed, and there was this smell, and the only supper had been a pack of Sweet Chili Chicken McCoys.

But Wild Beasts are, of course, magnificent. On this point I approve of her taste. The singer is called Hayden, which is enough in itself, who has a voice which will make your stomach collapse. (In fact in Josh's case this actually happened, resulting in an embarrassing incident in the smokers' area. Yes Josh, I read your texts too, over her shoulder. Frequently reprimanded for nosiness.)

So the Beasts are neither wild nor beastly, but they most certainly can growl. A growl which inspires behaviour of the most base and inappropriate kind, sparked up at random when performing the simplest of human/imaginary activities. Ordering a drink, for example, I almost stroked the barman's friendly imagination. His cheeks looked like the ripest peaches. So cute. And likewise, elbow those fucking couples in the groin.

A brilliant gig. They all dress in Beat clothing and are perpetually charming in their humble thank yous, breathy and a bit confused. Another reason to like them - those trousers are awfully tight and their words awfully funny.

Onwards now, the idiot needs the computer for early morning work. Most bizarre,

Consette x