don’t look down. it’s horrible. like some huge heaving mass from a 50s b-movie starring a young steve mcqueen just wobbling over the edges and taunting you mercilessly with its unrestrained girth. poke it with a stick. go on. see what happens. eeuw, that’s horrible. what on earth did you do?
I couldn’t really help it. last day alone and I’d had the forethought to get some of that pasta that looks like drainpipes and some sad looking garlic bread out of the freezer and its been slowly working out its escape plan from its vantage point on the cooker hood. its can’t go out the cat flap, because we haven’t got one, and anyway, the savage cavies would rip it to shreds. so I guess it just resigned itself to its fate. it did, however, get a sadistic little pleasure from knowing that it was surely too much for one person and well, you just can’t really keep cooked drainpipe pasta very well, especially if you’re a kitchen-challenged dolt with low self esteem who can’t be arsed to scrape it out when it’s cold and put it in one of last years ice cream dishes with a wonky label and wet cling film.
but just that on it’s own wasn’t really enough was it? oh, no, we had to burrow into the vegetable tray and pull out some week-old mushrooms and pop down to the nasty corner shop who keep the stuff from the fridge in cardboard boxes out the back overnight to get ham in a packet that’s just come out of a cardboard box they were going to put round the back and then it really needed cheese sauce and what better than that half pound of cheese that wasn’t finished last time you did this about 3 weeks ago. simple. oh, better get some chocolate while I’m here as well. and more cheese. and those puddings look lovely madam.
have to say that the timing was perfect though. got the roux and the cheese and the ham and the drainpipes and the bread and the bottle of merlot to all peak at the same time (no mean feat in any circumstance) and just slopped it all into a huge bowl the shape of the curvature of the earth and took it through to watch the end of question of sport, natch. sue barker was bearing her teeth and ally mccoist didn’t get ‘stubble’ from jose mourinhio. I defy anyone to tell me how you could possibly better that scenario without including a life.
half an hour later, I’m prodding the leathery pasta pipes that still cling to the side of the caked bowl, like they’re some horrible alien out of starship troopers. bloody things. why’s there so many of them? who’s idea was that? I’m halfway though a repeat of friends that I don’t want to see by now and the chair has shrunk one person size. one herculean effort later and the remainder of the collosal bowlful is necked and I throw the fork with a great clatter into the bowl and sit back in the leather chair, and make that horrible self-satisfied noise that blokes do when they’ve finished a meal that was patently far too big for them but they ate it anyway because they could. aaaaaaaah.
but wait, what’s this, where I should be able to rest at least some of my arm? oh dear, it’s the aforementioned blobby thing that’s belched up from the pit of hell, well, from inside my shirt, and is now just blobbling around like a 38 year old appendage that you just kind of learn to ignore. I mean, it’ll be gone by the morning and I’ll be looking like david hasselhof again, so what’s the worry. no matter that I can’t move. I’m not going anywhere – I brought the chocolate and bottle of merlot with me and arctic monkeys are on in a minute