#flattenthecurve Episode 26

The Phantom of the Semi Autobiographical Blog

The wife and the kids watched The Phantom of the Opera on TV on Saturday. I am not an Opera fan, but was sat in the same room as them and couldn't be bothered moving, so I just grumbled all the way through and complained how loud it was.

It turned out to be a pre-recorded special 25th birthday edition (do not call Southwick Community Police Station to report that the Albert Hall is full of posh chaps and chapesses and really should be closed down without checking your facts first, I learned the hard way) and as a special treat they unmasked the Phantom at the end. Seems it's a fella called Andrew Lloyd Webber. Hideous looking creature, scared the hell out of the kids.

Anyway, in tribute to Musical Theatre (pronounced, as all us thespians know, as thee-eight-er) I have decided to sing today's blog in an operatic soprano voice. Just a shame it's only available in text form really.


The Great Cake Debacle

I feel sufficiently recovered from the cake ordeal touched on briefly in Episode 25 to retell the sorry tale in full, with perhaps just a dash of dramatisation for entertainment purposes.

It began Friday morning, in the kitchen ...

"Ooh, Bournville!" I squeaked, excitedly, spying a giant bar on the kitchen bench.

"Leave it, it's for a cake I'm baking" snarled the wife.

Perfect, I thought, I love chocolate cake, and off I skulked back upstairs to work.

Later
"Is there any coffee left?" I tentatively enquired.

"Leave it" barked the wife "it's for a cake I'm baking."

Chocolate and coffee cake. Is that a chocolate cake and a coffee cake, or one coffee and chocolate cake, I wondered? I don't care, either or both would be amazing. Could my wife, indeed could my life, get any better? I smiled to myself as I headed back to the Surface Pro grindstone.

Later Still
"Andrew" crooned the wife "which loaf tin do you think I should use?" And of course I was only too glad to put my work on hold briefly to assist in such a crucial matter.

Later Later Still
Aromas of baking drift through the house. I'm notice I have started to drool.

Later Later Later Still
I tentatively set foot in the kitchen, and espy the cake. The cake. The cake to end all cakes.

It isn't ready for eating, so I shuffle out the kitchen and volunteer to have lumps kicked out of me, aka play football, in the garden with Henry. The wife has made cake after all, she deserves a break.

And then I fix up Henry's old bike for Eva to use as her's really ain't so great. The wife, I reason, deserves a longer break after her cake baking exploits.

She's sad as Santa brought her the old bike (Eva was sad, not the wife) but excited at the prospect of a new bike too, and in a burst of genuine DIY skill I managed to properly fix the front brake.

Ok, in the spirit of honesty and openness it would have remained unfixed if Eva hadn't spotted I'd overtightened one of the screws. What she has in natural bike maintenance awareness she sadly lacks in modesty however and took great delight in mentioning this repeatedly for the rest of the day.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the cake. Occasionally, whilst in the garden, I looked up and I could see the cake through the dining room window. It was calling to me, beckoning me, enticing me with its chocolatey coffee cakeyness.

Cake!

At Last
And finally, the cake was presented as being ready for eating.

"Is there (* sniff) ... is there a funny smell?" I venture, a little perturbed. "A cat maybe, or a child perhaps?" I suggest, as I look around the room.

"Nah" says the wife, sniffing, it'll be the bananas."

"Oh" I exclaim relieved, "they smell awful. Shall I chuck them out?"

Bananas and me, you see, have history. I hate them. I hate the smell, I hate the taste, I hate them I hate them I hate them. In a former workplace a colleague used to dispose of her banana based waste in a different room, such was my intolerance of the curvy yellow demons of the fruit bowl. I've been known to gag when the kids eat them too near me.

I once bit into a banoffee pie under the misapprehension it was just an 'offee' pie. This was at a wedding do at Tall Trees in Yarm more than 15 years ago. The fact I remember the event to this day should illustrate my feelings about bananas if people were still uncertain.

I hate them so much I'd gladly put off cake tasting for a couple of minutes to dispose of some yellowy-browning stinking curves of death.

"No need," replies the wife "they're gone. I used the last two in the cake."

There was a moment of silence as the enormity of the admission struck home. A brief pause before my heart was audibly crushed. Nay, cleft in twain, then crushed.

Twice nay, for it was cleft in twain, splintered, then crushed. Then painstakingly stuck back together before being ceremoniously, publicly and humiliatingly cleft in twain, splintered, crushed and ground into the earth.

The wife is fully aware of my banana history, having known (and loved?) me for 20 plus years. But still she chose to put the tropical crescents of poison in the cake. The wonderful, beautiful, delicious chocolatey coffee-ey cake of my day dreams has been sullied. In my eyes it is now a non-cake. Percakea non grata.

This feels like something that will be mentioned for years to come. Forever, in fact. Alongside the espresso jelly that bounced when dropped, and the pearl barley and belly pork risotto that caused slimey-sloppy queasiness and resulted in a dash to the chippy before it shut for the night.

And then, then she had the temerity to ask me to slice some up for her and the kids. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this.

Cake (* sob)

It was too soon, sorry. (* Sob) I thought I could brave this out. I tried, at least.

(* Sob)


Cats Again

The cats don't eat cake, or bananas, so I thought I'd be safe going to make friends with Jessie, only to discover she had a stinking great turd hanging from the long fur around her ... around her ... around her let's just leave that thought there.

I held her hissing twisty body and snappy head while the wife brandished a fist full of toilet roll to clean her up.

I reckon she's done it on purpose just to wind us up, so making friends will have to wait.


Brownies

In an act of honourable contrition, on Saturday the wife made me brownies. The soft sticky cakes, not the Brown Owl doting, toadstool jumping, mini Girl Guides.

They smell full of hazelnutty chocolatey goodness and she's well on her way to being forgiven for the cake debacle based on just the appearance and smell alone.

They've got to cool first, so I'll let you know how the tasting goes after I've been out with the kids.

Later
We returned from our bike ride with two new records set by Eva, the distance record and the number of tears per mile. Both were somewhat stress inducing, so I wa ready to taste the brownie.

And the verdict? It was good. So good! Cake? What cake?

It's more of a desserty type thing than a sliced cake type product for having with a cup of tea, which means I was compelled to have a scoop of ice cream with it too. What a shame, hey.


Shopping

The wife seems very keen for me to go and do the shopping today. We don't desperately need anything, I think she's just keen to get me out the house.

I can't wait to see her face when I remind her the 'one trolley, one person' rule is still in force so I can't take the kids.

Unless it really is just me she wants shot of?


Kick Start

Whenever I'm out on my bike trying a really dangerous manoeuvre like bouncing up a kerb, swerving between 2 well spaced sticks on the ground, or going down a slight bank (I'm really not a brave bike rider) I can't help but hum the theme tune to Kick Start.

There's a prize for anybody who knows the name of the the song used as the theme tune?*

Kick Start was the pinnacle of 1980s televisual entertainment. If you don't remember it, or have never heard of it then:

(i) what have you been doing with your life? and

(ii) it was a programme presented by Peter Purves (of Blue Peter fame) featuring people (usually young men with dodgy 'taches, it was the 80s after all) riding trial bikes through skips of water, over oil drums and under bamboo poles stood on sticks, all racing against the clock to get back to where they started and win the adulation of the handful of other trial bike enthusiasts gathered in a damp field in the middle of nowhere. And then they did it all again in reverse.

Sometimes the action was broken up my over eager St. John's Ambulance people taking overly enthusiastic tumbles down slippery embankments.

It really was compelling viewing. There was a kids version too, along the same lines as the adult version but with easier obstacles and fewer 'taches.

I'm going to introduce the kids to it on YouTube. I may have to disown them if they don't like it as much as me.

* Theme tune prize? Not really, it's just for fun. The Kick Start theme tune was called Be My Boogie Woogie Baby by Mr Walkie-Talkie. If you don't remember it, Google it. If you do remember it, Google it anyway, it really is as brilliant as you remember it. The first half anyway, it does get a bit repetitive and has some strange vocals in the second half.


Kitchen

The boy and I returned from our Sunday cycling Tour de Sunderland to find the wife had reorganised the kitchen cupboards. Again. I've only just got used to the previous reorganisation, how many times can one woman reorganise the kitchen cupboards!

There are of course some questions that cannot be answered by one man and his trusted friend Google alone, so I need your help on this one. Answers on a postcard please, addressed to:

For F***s Sake Where's The Chocolate Hobnobs Now?
PO Box I've Already Told You Once!
Sunderland
SR5 If I Remembered I Wouldn't Be Asking Again, Would I!

Deep breaths .... deep breaths.