October 22nd, 2015


Church Unmilitant

The curate came round to give my mother communion- as he does once a month. Usually we leave Kirstie to look after him but Kirstie is on holiday- in Rome.  He's a smiley, nervy, ingratiating chap, uncertain of his place in the pecking order- the archetypal curate in fact, though older than the traditional curate- a man in his fifties who used to be a solicitor or a stockbroker or something like that...

But then he's asking questions- which amount to "So tell me what you do all day..." And I use my trusty shield and buckler, deflecting. blocking, because, "Really, you know, I'm not one of your little flock, mate."

Turkey Breasts

I put four of them in the pan and they overlap the edge and I'm thinking, "That's a lot for just two people..."

But when they come out of the oven they're about half the size they were and they're swimming in all this greasy water they've sweated out. And there's no way the water was ever part of the bird's original metabolism.

Another reason for not eating meat.