Wednesday, 3 November 2004

Beware The Mark O' The Beasts

It was a particularly long and unproductive day yesterday, so The Husband and I decided to go for a drink after work at the new ‘club’. It was deserted on our arrival, but gradually some teachers and nurses appeared, and once again I found myself propped up at the bar, a lone female in the midst of a blathering group of men. I was quite happy to leave them to it, honest, I wasn’t looking for attention or anything, really. Clearly they are just not used to the sight of a white woman yelling ‘HOLY FUCK!’ at the top of her lungs while simultaneously ripping open her shirt in the manner of Clark Kent, to reveal a giant cockroach crawling towards her bra. Thank heavens it was candlelight, that’s all I can say. We gave the assembled gentlement some time to recover before slinking away home.

Sometimes the no-water thing can be downright dangerous as well as inconvenient. Especially when you get burnt all up your arm by boiling oil because the shitty gas cooker is uncontrollable. I run screaming to the tap but of course there is no water. By some miracle there is water in the emergency bucket and I plunge my arm into that. While I am kneeling on the floor I remember that my arm was covered in insect repellent; thus I have rendered the only water we have unfit for consumption. After about 5 minutes the arm-throb subsides. I get up, and promptly slip on the water I’ve spilled on the highly polished floor (thank you, Milly). I leave the evil chicken hissing in the boiling oil and set about the less dangerous task of making some mango salsa.

I have no idea what goes in mango salsa, but I vaguely think it is just chopped mango and red chilli flakes. The Husband will beg to differ, being a Top Chef as well as a Keen Gardener.
“What are you putting in the mango salsa?”
“Mango and chilli.”
“What about some coriander? Parsley?”
“Nooooo. Just mango and chilli.”
“Some Thai basil? Will I get some garlic?”
“Mango and chilli is fine.”
“Really? Not even some mint?”
It’s worse than being interrogated. I give in.
“Well, maybe some coriander.”
“What about the parsely? Do you want a sharp knife to chop that?”
No, because at the rate I’m going I will slash open my fingers with it.
“No thank you.”

Salsa done I retire to the lounge. It is a regular bug convention in there. I am having an extreme allergic reaction to something which is biting me, as golfball sized lumps have started to appear all over my body. There is a particularly fetching one in the middle of my forehead. I vainly hope it disappears before the wedding. I can just imagine the introductions: “I’d like you meet my friend, Golfballhead.”