TRUE STORY. So as I mentioned in previous posts I was due to have a change, afterall I’d been bleached blonde for almost 5 years…. so it was time for not only a change, but time to give my poor hair a rest! Obviously, it’s very difficult to do anything when you’ve got as much bleach into your hair as I have, so I decided to go red!

What do you think?!

I have to say it’s taking a lot of getting used to, even after a week I’m still shocked when I look in the mirror!

Also, I’m on LookBook.nu if anyone else is! Do let me know because, additionally, I’m only just getting to grips with that too! I’ve just added the below ‘look’.

Judy Pink Wears:

AllSaints Military Boots – £165

AllSaints Broken Dreams Tee – £45

AllSaints Scarab Ring- £25

x3 Necklaces – £120

Giles Deacon Scarf – £25

CHANEL Classic 2.55 Caviar Leather Handbag – £1380

Again, as I expected, these weeks are just getting busier and busier and busier! So much is going on at work! I’ve scheduled lots of new eBays to go live from 7.30pm tomorrow, let me know if you’re interested in anything ASAP so I can remove listings before theres any other bids!

Ms. Judy Pink.

you heard it correct, I’m doing away with my age old bleached blonde locks… SHOCK HORROR INDEED!

We’ve done a little research, but basically, I just wanted feedback from people who have already dyed over bleached blonde. Last time I tried to go red it faded within one wash and basically went pinky/purple; this is AFTER using 4 boxes of dye! oo-er!

I know any sane hairdresser would not go within an inch of her/his life of my hair and to be honest, theres noway I’m having an unstable mind touch it either! So I have little choice but to have the wife – as he usually tends to anyway! ;o Unless any lovely hair stylist would like the service of pursuing colouring my locks? I grew them myself!

SO, what is this business about a ‘filler’ before using any other colour ontop? What are your experiences and what ‘filler’ colour is best?

Any info will be greatly appreciated as I’m wanting to get changing shade very soon!

Ms. Judy Pink.

Not that this is breaking news or anything, but Matthew Lewis posted a picture of the Phelps twins and himself at a press conference (for Half Blood Prince, no doubt) in Amsterdam.

Notice all the brown hair. The Weasley twins have once again lost their Weasley…but with that said, why expect someone to walk around with obnoxious ginger hair when it’s not real? Although, I do prefer them with their orange locks, funnily enough. And Matthew Lewis, like always, looks a mess. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me. I’d want to get away from the image of Neville Longbottom as much as humanly possible.

On repeat:

Tonight is the night of the severe hair dye.

With any luck it should work.

It has to be the best Valentines Day present… Well, it’s the best valentines present for us, for a couple who love to watch horses race, and talk horses, and want to watch a race and care, and cheer if the right horse wins. It might not happen but wouldn’t it be great if our horse won a race! So we’re going to buy a bit of a horse. Please don’t ask which bit. And when my boyfriend suggested this perfect valentines gift I loved him a little bit more, which has to mean the patron saint of loved-up-ness would approve of this plan.

I said that we’re going to buy a ‘bit of a good horse’ but it could as easily be ‘a bit of a bad one’. Our budget is only small and we can buy 5% at most. Is that a hoof? Or half a hoof? I’m not sure. It  may only be a bit of horse but it’s a lot of fun.

We still have to choose our horse and we’ve narrowed it down to three or four.  It’s surprisingly hard to find a horse that fits the bill. We want a young horse for £1000 a year -ish based in the south and we hope to own 5%. Well 5 is  my favourite number.

These are the horses on the shortlist. 

Toby

This partnership is run by Steve Taplin who writes a book about the best 2 year olds in the new flat season every year. Not only would he be a knowledgeable person to share a horse with he seems like a jolly nice chap. He’s written very friendly and helpful emails to us, and it’s encouraging  to know we’d have a good guy on our side in our first horse owning venture. The horse is an unraced 2 year old and his sire is the highly rated Tobougg. The downside is that the horse is based  in the north-ish, ideally we’d love to see our horse run at Kempton/Lingfield/Southern tracks, and visit the trainer now and then. Still, this one is on the shortlist.

Granny McPhee

We’re trying not to be put off by that  silly name. I quite enjoyed the film Nanny Mcphee and I remember getting emotional at the romance of it’s happy ending. I watched it when I’d first met Steve and because I was very much in love I cried at the unconventional wedding with all the snow and the kids causing chaos. But I’m not sure where the ‘Granny’ bit of the horse’s name comes from? Emma Thompson isn’t that old. Although she does look a bit like a horse.

Anyway, the name isn’t important. Not really. This 3 year old is based at Newmarket and is the cheapest deal we’ve found. She’s run a few times and had an impressive second in a class 4 race at Chester with a 80+ RPR. She set off as favourite in her last class 6 AW try at Wolverhampton but flopped dismally for no clear reason. That’s horses for you. I still think she has a promising career. The only downside is that we’d only own 2.5% and not the magic 5.

I suppose there’s something about buying a share in a horse that reminds me of having a new baby - we’re planning something as a couple, reading all about it, looking forward to the future, and spending lots of money…!  I don’t know whether it’s just a ‘pregnancy brain’ kind of thing but I like the idea of choosing a ‘baby’ horse, one at the very start of its career, helping to choose its name, seeing its first steps race, but I am glad we won’t have to change any nappies.

Our third horse partnership option is a promising one. The downside is that it’s by far the most expensive.

2 year old grey filly

Linamix

She’s a 2 year old grey unamed filly by by One Cool Cat out of Nortolixa. One Cool Cat is of course a cool horse. I know next to nothing about racehorse breeding but apparently the Mum’s Dad is important, and this filly’s Grandad is Linamix. He’s a top french horse who’s ‘progency stats’ page shows very impressive numbers, much like Cool Cats. But of course this little horse could still be no good. Paying more money for good breeding might not be the wisest move. We don’t expect to make any money at all by doing this, it has to be seen an expensive hobby. And if we can have the same fun with a cheaper horse that would make more sense, wouldn’t it? The plus points of this filly are that she’s based quite near us in Epsom so we would get to see her races.

I keep finding lots of silly reasons for liking this horse. There’s the ‘new baby’ factor, with this one – we might even get to pick the name! And she’s half french and I have this daft idea that french horses are somehow the classiest beasts. Steve said that ‘class’ comes from the mum’s side, and guess what?! Her mum is french! So isn’t it as obvious as onions that she’ll be fast and win?! Hmmm… Well, anyway, the gambler’s instinct in me says that this horse has the best ‘odds’ of being good – even though the odds are still size zero slim.

She’s grey but I can’t decide if that’s good or bad? I feel an unreasonable disappointment when I back a horse and then find it’s a grey one. The logic of this is that pretty horses can’t run fast. It’s all to do with brains and beauty not coming together. And don’t talk to me about Carol Vorderman!

The plus point of her being grey is that we’ll watch a lot of her races with the kids around and my eight year old will be forever saying, ‘Where is she? Did she win?’ if we pick an average bay horse. With this grey horse it’ll be like there’s a friendly arrow pointing at her back with big child friendly letters hovering over it saying, ‘This is our horse!’

And ok, it’s not just my eight year old, it’s me too. I’m always short-sightedly peering at a far off muddle of horses and trying to pick out my jockey’s colours.  I can imagine it being nice to just look and see our grey horse and then it’s jockey with his white and orange colours. Oh, and did I tell you that orange is my favourite colour?

But enough of this silliness… I won’t even get into the ‘grey is the ginger of the racinghorse world’  argument. Otherwise I’ll only find some obtuse correlation between this horse and my boyfriend’s brilliant red hair. I always wanted a ginger baby. Would 5% of a grey 2 year old unamed filly by One Cool Cat fit the bill instead?

These are my exceedingly good fruit cake pros and cons for these partnerships. Like any big decision it’s a mixof head stuff and heart stuff. I suppose that’s a bit like love.. Although a horseracing blog isn’t the place to get philosophical about that, even this close to Valentines Day.

Whether we choose a bit of a bad horse or a bit of a good one, a bit of a dark horse or a bit of a grey one, it’ll still be my best Valentines Day present ever. 

 Thank you Steve.

i saw this absolutey amazing thing and couldn’t believe my eyes. yes, this hirsute doll exists. yes, the owner [or giftee] is meant to shave the offending surfeit of “hair”.

on top of being completely speechless why such a toy was designed, manufactured and marketed, i have the following questions:

• what kind of person would purchase this for their own amusement?
• what kind of person would purchase this item for a gift?
• what kind of person would be a potential giftee?
• who is the assumed audience for this oddity?
• does the doll arrive with appropriate shaving accoutrements?
• the doll illustrated has ginger hair. this begs two questions within a question:
  • presuming this is an asian product, why does the doll have ginger hair which is in the minority?
  • does the doll come in other hair colors?
• who thought this doll was a good idea?
• why so much hair in the pubic area?
• why so much hair in the pubic area?
• why so much hair in the pubic area? 

this doll defies so many concepts in my personal gestalt that i want to see one in person. and say “what the fuck?” to its face.

Sorry for the brief break, but here are a few in a row to make up for it. The topic? Us.

• 60 percent of the potassium in the human body is stored in the hair.
• While it’s not true that people’s nails and hair grow after death, the eyes often open as the body dries, pulling back the lids. This is where the phrase ‘Evil Eye’ comes from.
• Freckles are caused by photosensitive bacterial clusters living under the skin. Anti-bacterial facial scrubs can help tone them down, but not cure them.
• Blondes might have more fun, but people with ginger hair live an average 6.2 years longer.

Ta, David.

I’m annoyed this morning. When I went to make my breakfast I found that nobody had set the dishwasher away last night and there were no knives in the drawer. I had to wash one before I could butter my toast. Grr. I supopose things like that are to be expected when you live with so many people (16 of us on my floor, and we have less becasue the caretaker has one corridor) but it’s happening a little too often lately. I object to having to wash the dishes before I’ve even started cooking!

I think I must have complained too loudly about being hot yesterday after all – it’s raining now.
Whenever I complain about the rain here some “Hilarious” German feels the need to say “but shouldn’t you be used to this, coming from England?” or “doesn’t this weather make you feel at home then?”. Do you think they’ve noticed that Great Britain is an island. It’s surrounded by sea. If it really rained as much as people here seem to think we’d have been washed away by now!

Here are some other stereotypes that the Germany have about English people:

• British people can’t cook. We also don’t know what spice is for, so all our food is boring and bland.
• We’re obsessed with “peppermint” sauce and eat it with everything.
• We have ham and eggs for breakfast every morning (I blame the school text books for this one… especially the “ham” part. Would it really so difficult for the kids to remember the word bacon??)
• We eat fish and chips all the time. With lots of vinegar, which makes them taste disgusting. (Actually if we used the kind of vinegar they’re thinking of it probably would taste disgusting. They don’t seem to do malt vinegar here…)
• We drink lots of tea, all the time. Several hundred cups a day. And we put milk in it. (This one’s partially true. I know people that actually do drink (what seems like) hundreds of cups of tea every day. But try getting a German to believe that not every English person likes tea…)
• We’re crap at football (actually I can see why they think that. Which team isn’t in the European cup this year again? That’d be England I believe…)
• All English people have ginger hair, pale skin and freckles. I actually almost fit this stereotype – I have pale skin and freckles and my hair is red, but not ginger

That’s all I can think of right now, and I have to get ready for work anyway. If anyone would like to add any more stereotypes to the list please comment. Maybe some stereotypes that people in countries other than German have about us? (And any Germans reading this please don’t take offence. It’s just for fun! I actually really like Germans and love living in Germany.)

At the student paper we used to get a weekly stream of complaints, some of them with merit, others that just didn’t like what was written. Every now and then a gem cropped up. The following is one of the last complaints I received, which lightened up a dull day no end, and my reply (in my defence, I was very bored that day). Occasionally you get little things that are worth keeping. This was one of them:

****

Dear , In the section entitled “Debate” in the Quench magazine of the 9th May, [Columnist A] says, “Funds that could do anything other than pay for fancy dress costumes for that little ginger twat Harry”. I find the reference to Prince Harry’s hair colour offensive and racist against the Celtic inhabitants of this country. I find it offensive because I have ginger hair also. If the comment had read, “…that little black twat”, Mr [Columnist A] would have metaphorically been put against a wall and shot. Why is it, then, that the Union has done nothing when someone is victimised because of their hair colour? Surely, the logical outcome of such a complaint should be the same as if the comment had made a reference to Harry’s skin colour? I wish for this case to be brought to an harassment committee and [Columnist A] banned from the Union with immediate effect, as is stated in the Constitution. I also want the editor to take responsibility for the content of their contributions, as they would have to if skin colour had been the basis of the insult. Yours sincerely,

And my reply:

Dear , Thank you for taking the time to write to the paper and highlight this issue. However in this case we stand by the opinion of our contributor, [Columnist A]. In your complaint you describe the calling of Prince Harry as a “little ginger twat” as racist against Celtic inhabitants. This suggests that all Celts have ginger hair, which we have seen no evidence to support (see, for example our Union President, and our Deputy Editor, who are Welsh and do not have ginger hair. Indeed, the natural complexion of the Celts is pale skin and dark, almost black, hair). In addition you describe comments against ginger hair as racist in general. While there are a high proportion of ginger-haired people, to the best of our knowledge ginger-haired people are not a separate race (indeed, we have yet to see the option ‘Ginger’ under an ethnicity question) and, as such, the comment cannot be construed as racism. The comments in question were, in my reading of the article, descriptive towards Prince Harry. [Columnist A] is making reference to that fact that Prince Harry is little, has ginger hair and, in the opinion of the writer, is a twat. These comments are not directed at ginger people per se, but rather were intended to be derogatory towards one person – Prince Harry. At no point is any mention made of Prince Harry’s skin colour and nor does it make any reference, derogatory or otherwise, towards ethnicity. [Columnist A] is not, in our reading of the text, harassing ginger haired people, but is passing comment on the prince. If Prince Harry wishes to complain over the article, the paper would welcome his comments. We will, however, speak to [Columnist A] and remind him that there are readers out there with ginger hair, as yourselves, who could construe such comments as offensive. However, this is the first time [Columnist A] has made such comments regarding the colour of somebody’s hair and we see no reason as to why he will make such comments in the future. Finally, we would like to point out that the article had been shown three ginger-haired section editors, none of whom found the article to be offensive in any way. There is a fourth ginger-haired section editor who has not been consulted on the article, but we can solicit her opinion if you so desire. Yours,

I don’t know quite where the time has gone today.  It’s twenty past five and I only feel like I had breakfast about ten minutes ago, and yet when I look at what I’ve done today it amounts to three fifths of bugger all.  Perhaps I have been whisked away in a Kurt Vonnegut type moment and have actually spent all day being poked at in a Tralfamadorian zoo (Slaughterhouse Five).  It seems the only logical explanation when I think about it. 

Apparently a large percentage (I’m not good at numbers, so the word large will just have to suffice) of Americans believe that they have been kidnapped by aliens.  Lots of them also insure themselves against the possibility of being kidnapped by aliens.  Most of the rest of the population of the world think it’s too late to worry and we have a sneaking suspicion that they are already extra-terrestrials, and a little bit of light kidnapping would probably knock some sense into them. 

I don’t know about percentages for the rest of the world, or indeed how they feel about the whole alien/conspiracy theory type thing. I can’t imagine that the French would get very worked up about that kind of thing.  It’s just not chic, and it would probably ruin their hair.  The Mexicans are very excitable, but that may be due to the hat situation and the fact that they live quite close to the Americans.  I don’t think people in England could be arsed to worry about alien invasion.  It’s just all a bit too much like hard work, and we’d have to fit it in between the plot lines in Eastenders and worrying about the football.   

This is fascinating.  Now, I am a world class worrier. I would easily get gold in an Olympic worrying style contest (I’d be too stressed out about falling off the podium and not knowing the second verse of the national anthem to collect my medal), but I can honestly say that I have never lost a night’s sleep over my possible kidnapping by extra-terrestrials.  It may be due to the fact that my entire family is extremely weird and having had to live with them on a daily basis, the alien thing would probably be a nice rest.  They can’t be freakier than the kids, surely? 

As long as they were sparing with the whole probe thing I could manage.  I’m not keen on flying, but with a sick bag I could make do, and I expect the food on board an alien space craft would be either vastly superior to, or at worst on a par with that provided by British Airways, so there’s no worry there.  I worry more about the fact that it’s almost impossible to get a decent bit of cheddar in Germany, and let’s face it, I’m more likely to go there than I am to Mars. 

I’d also be much more worried about being kidnapped by a bearded man called Dave with a dangerous glint in his eye and a penchant for sharp cutlery, although I don’t think I’d bother to insure myself against him.  People do insure themselves against the oddest things.  They even insure talented body parts in case they end up like the one armed drummer from Def Leppard, although he seems to do alright with just the one arm.  Mind you, I didn’t think much of them when he had two arms, so perhaps it’s not much of a stretch.  After all, drumming is basically thumping things with a stick, and I’m sure you can thump repetitively with one arm as well as two. 

I might insure my hair.  It’s now beginning to take on a life of its own since the nit trauma.  It’s probably evolving into a separate eco-system with a flourishing flora and fauna (although no more nits, I am proud to say, since the great napalm incident of 2007).  If I ever get to be a famous author it will probably be my trademark and I must make sure that Nicki Clarke doesn’t get his mitts on it and turn it into silky, manageable hair that actually looks like hair instead of an interesting raffia pot holder that a door to door salesman with one arm guilts you into buying. 

Technically I am actually in the middle of cooking a roast beef dinner.  I do love eating roasts but they’re a lot of fuss aren’t they?  It’s all go, go, go at the beginning and the end, and then lots of sitting around twiddling your thumbs in the middle.  For me it’s even more stressful, because I like my roast beef so rare that it challenges you to a fight over the gravy, whereas Jason likes his medium well, consequently there’s a lot of arsing around with timers to make sure we’re all happy.

I seem to recall that I have mentioned this before, so if I have, play some lift music in your head and blip over the next few paragraphs.  I used to get totally stressed about Yorkshire puddings, and for years, frightened off by my mother and her tales of woe, refused to even attempt them.  Hers either explode out the oven door and garrotte you in the manner of the magic porridge pot, or sulk limply at the bottom of the oven refusing to play.

She has a habit of culinary kill or cure.  When she was first married to my Dad, they lived in a bedsit the size of a sock with a teeny, tiny stove on which she decided that she would cook him his very best favourite dish in the whole world, rice pudding.  She diligently poured in the rice and the milk, and more milk, and more milk.  She had to go out to the shop and buy more milk.  She had to go out to the shop and buy more pans.  She eventually cooked enough rice pudding to keep the entire air force fed for a week because she’d reversed her milk to rice ratios and it had all gone a bit wrong.  My dad loves rice pudding, but not enough to eat it for breakfast, lunch and tea for a fortnight, which is a shame really, because that’s what happened!

My brother is very gifted in the Yorkshire pudding department, and as Tilly and Jason love them with a passion, I used to have to invite him round for dinner on a regular basis, so that he could cook the puds.  He didn’t mind being used as long as he got an extra helping of beef, he’s very accommodating like that!  He rescued me from culinary shame however, when he recommended our Gordon’s book; ‘Sunday Roast’.

 If you’re ever worried about your Yorkies, use Gordon’s recipe.  It works every time and I am forever indebted to him.  Mind you, I blame him for the fact that I hardly see my brother any more.  He may have broken up the family unit, but the kids think it was worth it!

I’m at the twiddling about in the middle stage of dinner, as you can tell.  Even for the multi-talented me, it would be a bit of a stretch to be making Yorkshire batter, peeling carrots and typing.  Although I expect someone like Jane Asher or the Sainted Delia do it all the time, probably whilst making exquisite love to their manly husbands (although I do have a lot of time for Gerald Scarfe, and it does make you think that there might be more to Jane Asher than ginger hair and novelty birthday cakes). 

Can I say for the record that I bloody hate Delia Smith.  I know that it’s a blasphemy to say this of the woman who taught Noel Edmunds to cook on Swap Shop, and who has delighted our hearts ever since, but  I have never, ever in my whole life managed to cook a single one of her recipes without something going hideously wrong. I blame Noel Edmunds for unleashing her on the nation, and he can cop it for that little twerp Keith Chegwin as well.  John Craven is alright, harmlessly pottling along on Country File, still wearing his busy sweaters.  We’ll keep him, but the rest can go when I get to be world dictator.

Jamie, my ex-husband was a wow at roasts, and always did Christmas lunch because left to me it would be some cheese sandwiches with holly on and banana milkshake all round.  He used to swear by Delia’s Christmas book, and with it clamped firmly to his side, the meal would all move forward with military precision and taste gorgeous. 

I think that’s half the problem.  Delia is a very manly chef. I’m just the wrong sex to appreciate her.  She’s cool, calm and collected and does one thing at a time carefully and with great planning and forethought.  She doesn’t whirl around the kitchen slicing the ends of her fingers off, bleeding into the home made mayonnaise and swearing because she forgot to buy corn flour and only at the last minute realising that emulsion just won’t work the same. 

I have never forgiven her for the great onion soup disaster of 2005, where I decided to cook a three course dinner with French onion soup as the starter.  I used to make the one from Two Fat Ladies, but it is basically a bottle of white wine with an onion in it, which is fine by me, but our guest didn’t like wine.  I searched high and low for a suitably unalcoholic substitute and plumped for Delia’s in her: ‘How to be a vegetarian without stressing out all your friends when they invite you to dinner,’ book. 

I have this book, not because I am a vegetarian (the clue being the roast beef dinner, I suspect), but because many of my dearest friends are, and I am partial to the odd vegetable myself.  I am even training Jason to the idea of meatless dinners, despite his reluctance to move away from meat and ‘taters’ mode.  It is bizarre however, due to my pale and frankly unhealthy complexion (I am always shattered, and rarely go out in daylight hours) how many people ask me if I am a vegetarian! 

The only good thing about having a pale complexion like mine is that if you are ever waiting to see the triage nurse in A&E they will invariably bump you up the list because you; ‘look awfully pale dear’, and they’re afraid that you’re either a) hideously anaemic and could collapse at any time, or b) bleeding internally and could collapse at any time. I think this pale=vegetarian thing is just hilarious, as most of my veggie friends are robustly healthy looking, hale, hearty and ruddy of cheek.  It does seem to be coded into the national psyche however, that if you are a vegetarian you must be both undernourished and extremely unwell looking.  Something for the vegetarian marketing board to address I think. 

There probably is a vegetarian marketing board by the way.  There is a potato marketing board.  I used to pass it on my way to work every day when I worked at a scientific publishers in Oxford.  The weird thing was that you never saw anyone go in or out of the building, although there was the occasional car parked outside.   You never saw any potatoes or potato-like activity taking place either.

This led me to believe that the potato marketing board was actually a front for something more sinister.  My final theory being that it was probably an MI5 think tank with secret passages through from the Cowley road branch of B&Q (underneath the petunias).  My second favourite option was that it was some kind of weird tuber cult which only came out at nights. 

Anyway, back to the soup. It seemed fairly straightforward, and I was very excited about it, because I love French onion soup (apart from the fact that it makes me fart like a billy goat.  I’m telling you this so that you don’t serve it if you ever invite me round for dinner.  I am wholly unsociable for seventy two hours after the soup has been inserted, and should be avoided like the plague.  Send me an e-mail). But it’s hard to get good ready made stuff. 

The English tend to make French onion soup that tastes rather like brown paint.  I think that’s because they’re probably mis-translating the French for onions as ‘brown paint’.  It’s an easy mistake to make.  There used to be a fantastic French café near Archway tube station that used to do the most amazing French onion soup, for which I would often do a detour on my way home from work, and then cringe in mortification as I gassed everyone on the nineteen tube stops home to my house.  It’s times like those that you wish London Transport would hurry up and invest in air conditioning.  I’d asphyxiated half a carriage of people by the time I reached Belsize Park. 

Back to Delia.  I did everything she said, honestly I really did.  I didn’t improvise with any of the ingredients, or do a Bridget Jones and use blue nylon to tie up my bouquet garni (I still cry with laughter at that bit.  It’s so me!)  I was totally law abiding, and I burned it! I burned soup!  How can you burn soup?  I am the only person in the world alive today who has actually managed to burn bloody soup. 

I was mortified.  I strained it through a tea towel, which I adapted from the cure for corking a bottle of wine.  It didn’t help.  Nothing helped.  I was so busy worrying about my burned soup I then overcooked my potatoes and set fire to the dessert.  Now do you see why I hate Delia?  We went out for chips in the end.  I had to close the kitchen off with haz mat warnings and yellow tape.  I should have thrown the recipe book in on the smouldering remains of the pudding. 

I once froze jelly solid by mistake (I was in a hurry and had forgotten the basic catering rules for kids parties.  I tried to pass it off as a novelty dessert.  It didn’t work.)  I once patched up the bottom of a savoury pastry flan with some left over jam tart mixture.  I once turned a quiche into a small charcoal pellet, but this was when I was improvising.  This was when I was riffing without the aid of a cookbook.  I burned soup following one of Delia’s recipes with religious fervour.  I am depressed and disappointed of Glenfield. 

Anyway, back to the roast beast.  This is a special treat for Jason.  I’m not usually a traditional roast dinner on Sunday type woman.  I once went out with a man whose father insisted that we go for Sunday lunch at his house every Sunday at 1.00 p.m. regardless of what else was going on in our lives.  He was a lovely man, he cooked fabulous food, and this was one of his only flaws.  If we didn’t turn up, we would be sulked at until the following week, even if we had a good excuse like being in another country or having a nasty amputation with a band saw type incident.  It was difficult living up to his expectations and I grew to dread Sundays for a while.

Because of this trauma, I do like roast dinners, but I don’t feel they should be confined to one day of the week.  I like to surprise people by springing them on them unawares on random Wednesdays for example.  I jump out at them from behind the kitchen door brandishing a Yorkshire pudding and shouting ‘Ha!’  I do like meal times to be fun. 

Poor Jason didn’t get a proper dinner when I cooked one last week, because he was poorly.  He kept watching Lee shovel forkfuls of rare roast beef in a peppercorn crust into his mouth and weeping over his bit of dried toast, so I promised him I would revisit the dinner today.  Roast beef II, the revenge.  It has to be tonight because he’s off to London on a training course for a week tomorrow. 

This means two roast dinners in one week for the rest of us, which for me is a bit of an overkill, but the kids are over the moon.  Tilly is obsessed by roast potatoes and will eat them six at a time, and she’s also rather partial to Yorkshires, as long as they’re light and crispy.  Tallulah has been starved for most of the week, so she’d eat a bit of old tyre re-tread if it had enough gravy on it. 

Oscar has always been a meat and potatoes man.  I knew I was having a boy when I was pregnant because I just craved meat, meat and more meat, with an extra helping of meat.  I turned into a slavering cave man with a big hairy chested appetite for anything that once had a circulatory system.  Thankfully I didn’t also develop a hairy chest, as this would have been the last straw.  It’s a miracle I didn’t however, as I had every other pregnancy symptom known to man, and a few known only to Tralfamadorians.

It was all a bit weird, but that’s pregnancy.  With Tallulah I craved rhubarb crumble (which is why I ended up the size of both Little and Large) and with Tilly it was pickled onions, which is why nobody wanted to kiss me for nine months. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I was the size of a monster truck and cried for three weeks because Tiffany died on Eastenders (and I don’t even like Eastenders. I’d only turned over because I couldn’t stop crying over the Andrex puppy on the adverts).

I’m not usually a big fan of large lumps of meat.  I have a wide and eclectic appetite for food and will try most things.  I have a very limited range of food hates of which liver, brussell sprouts and rice pudding are the top three horrors.

I wouldn’t say I’m an expert on food but I am enthusiastic.  When we lived in London my hobby was going out for dinner!  I’ve never been on the London Eye, but I have eaten a lot of pie!  I had the great good fortune to go to Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant twice, which was amazing.  I’ve also been to Raymond Blanc’s Le Manoir aux Quatre Saisons twice, which was also splendid (stay the night.  It’s lovely).

I also had the great misfortune to go to The Ivy, which take it from me fans, is fine if you want to watch Cilla Black gorging her little ginger face on fish and chips, but not if you are remotely keen on food.  It’s not terrible by any means, but it’s not, ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven’ either, and their sticky toffee pudding is seriously over-rated in my humble opinion.  It’s like a celebrity version of the Little Chef with the lights turned down.  Not good.

Now I’m sure you’ll agree I’ve whiffled on quite enough for one day.  As we’re on a foody theme I will just finish on a note of quivering outrage.  May I say how ridiculously expensive panettone are?  I’ve probably mentioned this before too, but I have been hunting for one this week and I can’t find one cheaper than £9. That’s nearly ten of our English pounds, and I’m not really sure why I like them so much in the first place, because like all Italian cakes, they’re a bit weird.

So, I have a craving for weird, expensive cake.  Nothing new there then!  I wouldn’t mind except that I’m the only one who likes them, which means that sooner or later I’m going to crack, fork out nearly a tenner for the cake, which is about the size of Italy itself and then eat it all myself.  Not only will I be guilty and broke, I too will be the size of Italy.  Dammit.  If only I wanted a Welsh cake.  They’re only the size of a fifty pence and they’re very reasonable. It’s just a shame they taste like a disappointing scone.  What is a girl to do?

Oh carrot when raw you’re a tasty treat

In the form of a cake you’re hard to beat

At the end of a stick you’re such a tease

Grated in salad you’re so quick to please

And as a juice you’re pretty drink-able

Smothered in butter you’re equally sink-able

But as a hair colour you’re pretty unthinkable

Because no-one wants to be ginger.

We have all kinds of Gingers here… Gingers in denial… confused Gingers… even militant Gingers!

She’s not Ginger… she’s Strawberry Blonde!
Oh look… she’s getting a tan!

Sandra… It’s quite sunny up here, I’m getting burnt!

We’re fighting for liberation, a few extra freckles is a small price to pay!

Filmpjes gepost als protest tegen de voortdurende vervolging van roodharigen in de wereld**!  GINgers are the NIGgers of the world!

**of ten minste in de aso wijken van Newcastle