Tuesday, June 01, 2010


Louise Bourgeois & St Pauls

Louise Bourgeois
December 25, 1911 – May 31, 2010

One of my favourite exhibitions at the Tate Modern in 2008

Monday, May 31, 2010

Something else I obsess about.

New food obsession (somerset crackers, cream cheese, gherkins)
somerset crackers, cream cheese, and gherkins

I have an ... interesting relationship with food.
I like it well enough, and I don't think I would prefer it if we all ate sustenance tablets or anything, but I find it so tiresome.

Craig and I have a well worn folio of recipes that we make. Curries, stir-frys (stir-fries?), Italian food, steak. When we lived in London and he did most of the cooking (seeing as how he was home from work at 5:05pm and I wasn't home til near 7) we bought a cook book and he learned to cook more, and cook well. We are also very picky people, and our pickiness does not always line up*. It's ever so complicated but it works for us.

I tend to fixate on food. For a while all I would eat for breakfast was crumpets with marmite. For the next little while it was english muffins, and at the moment it is peanut butter on crackers, or toast. At the moment I would eat vindaloo three times a week if Craig wasn't there to roll his eyes and ask if maybe, just maybe, I could make something else on my nights to cook.

For a while all I craved for snack foods was hummus and pita bread. Then it was plain crackers. Now it is crackers with cream cheese and gherkins.

I'm a kind of like a pregnant lady with my strange strange food cravings, only without the little parasite.

I always have been like this. Fixating on flavours, or eating in order. I know it infuriates my family**. I get obsessed with a particular brand or flavour of say, museli bar, and eat them for months at a time. And then, all of a sudden, with no rhyme or reason, and usually when others could finally remember what damned museli bar it was that I ate, it would fade and I couldn't stomach them.

This post isn't going anywhere. Seriously. I just can't stop thinking about crackers with cream cheese and gherkins.

p.s. I took the Baron-Cohen Autism-Spectrum questionnaire. I scored just as highly as I suspected I would. What do you think I scored? What did you score?

* We do however both abhor tomatoes. We are a no tomatoes household. Yes, seriously, tomatoes. Ick.
** It is a huge joke in my family about how I hate having my foods touch on a plate. But seriously, it bothers me. A lot. Especially if it's something hot like, say, lasagne, and something cold like Salad. I would prefer a different plate for each.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Week Twenty-Two

The Week in Photographs

Dinosaur! Bert.
We (almost) surprised my darling father for his birthday. We did so well. Even my mama. Almost.
The dinosaur was a present from my darling sister.

"Weather Bomb"
We are in the middle of a "weather bomb". Rain rain everywhere.

Tuesday: Morepork Frenching?
So I know this says Morepork Trenching but it LOOKS like frenching. And the font is very pretty.

Wednesday: Work clothes
Trying on work clothes. Despite the fact I seem to be obsessed with stripes at the moment, I ended up with the white shirt.

Thursday: Things my mother taught me
One of the very many things my darling mother taught me was that Sard wonder soap can get almost any stain out. Like bright red lipstick out of a brand new white shirt.

Friday: So Freaking Cold
The 'weather bomb' moved from all rain all the time to freezing freezing temperatures. And rain all the time.
It has to be super cold for me to resort to hot drinks at work.

Saturday: Getting the costume sorted
In between getting photos printed and cleaning the house, I got my costume ready for Craig's Hair Metal Party.


Chanel lipstick, a fake tattoo, a fake septum piercing
You can just about see the huge fake tattoo I put on my neck.
I forgot to wash it off in the shower and then tonight? I got seriously scathing looks while at the supermarket.

27 and counting ...

The only proof that Craig wore tights
The only proof that Craig wore tights.

As the clock hit midnight and hair metal beat its way out of the speakers, Craig turned 27.
But he is not an 80s rock god, so by 1 am he was sleeping heavily, still clad in a black beater and leopard print leggings. His wig a straggly animal on a chair upstairs.
This morning he woke, curled into my side and groaned "Twenty Seven. That's almost Thirty".
And so, I made him pancakes.

When I met Craig he was 17. He's now 27. I am ever so lucky.