June 15, 2015

I should have stayed in bed

 

. . . yesterday.  I’d been Street Pastoring Friday night* so getting out of bed Saturday (ahem) morning (ahem) was a somewhat protracted business.**  I eventually came downstairs*** and was fallen on by the hellmob† who feel that six hours is plenty of time to be without the fascinating, stimulating and all-providing hellgoddess.††

And before I go on with this story I want to make it very clear that I had had an adequate amount of caffeine . . .

I have three eggs for breakfast every morning.†††  I make excellent scrambled eggs‡ and this also means that if I—er—don’t get around to eating for the rest of the day I’m still good to go.‡‡  I have NO IDEA how it happened, except that I must have put the pan carelessly down on the edge of the cooker while I reached for the bowl.  Possibly to do with sleep deprivation.  Even caffeine can only do so much.

AND THE BLOODY PAN LEAPED OFF THE COOKER, DID THREE CARTWHEELS MIDAIR‡‡‡ AND PLUNGED TO THE FLOOR WHERE IT FRELLING BOUNCED.  Who knew that a heavy copper pan COULD BOUNCE THAT HIGH?

I had scrambled eggs—scrambled eggs that had just had their butter stirred into them a moment ago—EVERYWHERE.  I mean EVERYWHERE.  I’m starting to feel hysterical again just remembering.  The eggs that landed on the front of the Aga itself were instantly welded into place because the front of the Aga is HOT, you know?  The fronts of the white cupboards were suddenly a shiny mottled yellow.  I had eggs on my computer, eggs on the piles of books and magazines§ to either side of it, eggs on the glass panes of the cupboards above the counters, eggs on my knitting bag . . . eggs on the FAR SIDE OF THE KITCHEN ISLAND, on the table I can no longer get the leaves up of because there are too many hellcritter crates, and on the glass front of the bookcase that stands next to the table.  There are probably eggs in the geraniums on the windowsills too, but it’s a bit of a jungle in there and if there are eggs they can just stay there.

Meanwhile, back at ground zero . . . my kitchen was built by a cowboy.  I have no idea where my predecessor found him, but I hope she put him back where he can trouble no one any further.  Since I have a cowboy mentality when it comes to housework this is mostly not that big a problem.  I curse the drawer that doesn’t open except when it shoots out and falls to the floor, but mostly I can ignore the fact that it has big gaps at the top and on both sides, and that the handle doesn’t fit flush to the front.  I can also ignore that the cowboy was either drunk or high when he put in the footings for the Aga§§ UNTIL I’M TRYING TO CLEAN SCRAMBLED EGGS OFF EVERY SURFACE IN THE KITCHEN.  A heavy copper pot can cannonball its contents with amazing force.  I had greasy scrambled eggs inside that frelling drawer, having slammed through the cracks;  I had scrambled eggs jammed under the not-flush handle.  I had—and, in fact, still have, since I see no way of getting them out—scrambled eggs puttying up the gaps in the Aga footings . . . I had scrambled eggs inside the oven-shaped space in the Aga that contains the gas feed and the striking mechanism and the spigots because there are vents in the top of the door which the eggs came through.  I had eggs sliding down Jesus’ tummy on the brand-new icon I have hanging on the front of one of those glass-paned cupboards§§§.  I had eggs dripping off the overhead ceiling beam.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH

I spent two hours cleaning the kitchen.~  And whining.  And then I made myself more scrambled eggs and I ate them.  ~~

* * *

* And I got STOPPED BY THE FUZZ ON THE WAY HOME.  Hee hee hee hee hee.  They must have been bored^—or poor Wolfgang has that look of minor criminal delinquency.  I saw a car pull in behind me and I couldn’t see it was cops but I am happy to say that late at night any car that pulls in behind me is guilty until proven innocent of being cops, and I drive accordingly.  At 4 am after being on your feet strolling the city for six hours you might be forgiven for BEING A LITTLE TIRED.^^  I had about decided this car was not cops since it had followed me all the way through town and out the other side and I hadn’t had any near encounters with trees or anything.  But they still pulled me over, one of them ambled out and asked—politely—if I was lost or if perhaps . . . I had had one or two down t’pub earlier?  No, I said cheerfully, I’ve been Street Pastoring, and I waved the sleeve of my jacket, lying on the seat next to me, at him.  Oh, Street Pastors, he said, carry on.  I spared him pointing out that he’d just spoken to me not an hour before on a street corner . . . but the anonymous thing about a uniform?  The SP logo is like a great big HARMLESS sign and I think cop gaze slides right off us.  Not the other way around, you will note.  But I’m still getting used to chatting amiably with The Man.  Or, occasionally, Woman.

^ I’m happy to say that in this area at 4 am, when the final Chinese/Thai/Indian takeaway/kebab shop/Subway sandwiches has closed after the last club+ has closed, things are pretty quiet.  Except for the occasional random old lady serially hurtling a hellmob.  The cops’ve stopped her too, as you may recall.

+ Yes we have those too.  No, really.  You want vices?  We got vices.  It’s just most of them go to bed pretty early.

^^ I would be useless at shift work—like cops—and with the ME the only reason I can do Street Pastoring at all—or all those late Sam duties—is because I stay up late anyway.  Just not quite this late+ and there’s less walking involved++, although what walking there is on an ordinary McKinley late night includes liberal use of small plastic bags.

+ Um.  Usually

++ Or chatting to people, which is much more tiring.#  I like carrying the knapsack, despite the weight of a full frelling thermos, because then I can concentrate on the hot-drinks service and conversation can be honourably limited to ‘vegetable, chicken and vegetable or hot chocolate?’  Mind you wrestling with thermoses that don’t open, plastic bags of paper cups that have no entry point, packets of soup that won’t tear and the regular dismaying disappearance of all the spoons, it usually takes an entire team to get a hot drink made anyway.  I suspect many of our regular homeless don’t want the drink but they enjoy the show.

# Answering the phones at the Sams is different.  They rang you.  You didn’t wander up to them wearing a silly hat.

** I’ve got the standard post-late-Sam duty system reasonably well banged out but I’m still working on post-SP.  I have two major problems about getting to bed before the morning news on Radio 3^:  the first is this three dog drill.  Pav is totally down on bodily functions.  You take her out, she does the necessary and she can’t wait to get back indoors again BECAUSE THERE WILL BE FOOOOOOOOOD.  Hellhounds . . . Chaos has to crap at least twice^^ every time he sets foot across the threshold and Darkness has to find the PEEEEEEEEEERFECT spot.  He can shuttle around a patch five foot square for five minutes . . . and then CHANGE HIS MIND and be obliged to LOOK ELSEWHERE.  And the pee-marking . . . they may have to pee several times and from several different directions on a single tree, dustbin, bus stop, wall^^^, pole, etc.  Although watching them trying to get it RIGHT with a pole is pretty funny since their aim isn’t all that great, and . . .

And the other thing is that I come back from any late duty STARVING.  And more so after following flaming hellhounds around on their eliminatory QUEST.  And eating is, you know, time consuming, since you’re not going to gag down six brownies and an onion^^^^ at the kitchen sink, are you?  You’re going to want to consider your choices and then sit down and enjoy your selection, and maybe get out a book to read or a little knitting and . . .

^ the sound of which produces an OH FESTERING FESTERING reaction, especially if I’ve fallen asleep in the bath again

^^ I am not merely paying for the makers of biodegradable plastic crap bags to send their children to college, I am also funding their tropical rainforest holidays in Maine and sun and surf holidays in Tibet+.  ARRRRRRGH.

+ Both of these options are EXTRA EXPENSIVE for what you might call the obvious reasons

^^^ Walls come in extents, you realise.  A self-contained extent from a peeing-dog perspective is anywhere from three-quarters of an inch to about two foot.  Sigh.

^^^^  Well I hope you aren’t

*** There may have been moaning

† I am DELIGHTED TO REPORT THAT the hellterror is off heat again YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY.  Although the hellhounds are still checking.  Hellterror is all, you want my butt?  I am delighted you want my butt!  Here is my butt!  HERE IS MY BUTT!  HERE IT IS!  HERE!  ARE YOU ENJOYING MY BUTT?  IT’S A NICE BUTT, ISN’T IT?  MAYBE YOU’D LIKE TO TICKLE MY TUMMY TOO?  OR I COULD JUST MUG YOU.  —Remind me why I have dogs.

†† Getting your dogs on your peculiar schedule is easy.  But all those bright little expectant eyes when you crawl through the door at three or four in the morning is perhaps not the perfect solution.  When are they going to invent a dog-walking robot?

††† All right so it’s not necessarily morning.  It’s the first meal of the day, okay?  Unless you count the nosh at 5 am.

‡ Possibly almost as good as Sunshine’s.  Almost.  After all, she’s a professional.

‡‡ There could be some connection here with why I am often starving at three or four in the morning.  But post-menopausal metabolism, you know?  The frelling eggs are an indulgence.  I could maintain weight on a carrot a week, I swear.  A small carrot.^

I am not thinking about Niall’s brownies.  I am not thinking about Niall’s brownies.  NOT.  +

+ However I am apparently ringing at Old Eden tomorrow night, where ringing up those bells is like running a flag up a flagpole where the pulleys are all frozen and the flag is the approximate size, weight and momentum resistance of the Albert Memorial.  Who needs a gym subscription?

‡‡‡ During which I wrung my hands and did not make a grab for it because it had only JUST come off the hot plate and I employ a heavy copper-clad steel pan because I can use all the upper-body strengthening devices I can get AND it cooks divinely not least for its HEAT RETAINING PROPERTIES.

§ You mean not everybody eats surrounded by books and writing implements of various applications, or keeps current reading material on the kitchen counters?^

^ There would be more on the floor except, you know, hellterror.  No she doesn’t eat paper but she does carom off it.

§§ It’s a reconditioned one so it’s possible that whoever did the reconditioning also supplied the footing. This is not an encouraging thought. Fortunately the Aga herself is a star and I wouldn’t be without her.  Long time readers may recall I’ve said that all my friends fell down laughing when they found out I’d bought a house with an Aga in it since I had clearly bought it for the Aga.  Ahem.  I deny this charge.  Although I admit the presence of an Aga may have been a tipping point.

§§§ A few weeks ago, when the real world was beating me up unusually hard, I met my monk on my way into the chapel on Saturday night and he asked me how I was. I burst into tears. The end of that conversation included Alfrick suggesting I buy myself a suitable icon and start poking my problems into the little cave with the skull in it at the foot of the cross.^

^ First you have to find a reproduction that doesn’t chop the cave off because it’s all for tourists anyway and they won’t care.  Good grief.  Or I should probably say God bless.  I finally found a nice shiny working Catholic repro of an icon.  I don’t recall however that you’re supposed to baptise your new icon in scrambled eggs and I was a little worried that the cheap varnish was going to peel off, but it seems to have taken no harm.+

+ This is a monologue for another night, but having been raised, supposedly, to be a generic Protestant . . . generic Protestants so miss out on the evil-papist [sic] ritual objects like icons and rosaries.  Maybe I’m just unusually mired in earthly matters# and/or old to be this young, but I find the props tremendously helpful and supportive.  We are living in this world with bodies in three mortal dimensions##.  I belong to the school of thought that it’s not all about transcendence.

# two hellhounds with chronic diarrhoea and a hellterror with a fabulous butt can do this to you

## and hellcritters.  I think hellcritter bodies exude an extra dimension or two.  Possibly hellterrors have a special Butt Dimension which could explain a lot.

# Small mercies:  the hellterror had been recrated^ before the excitement.  She did, however, have lovely buttery scrambled eggs for breakfast.  She did not care that they’d spent a few minutes on the floor or were seasoned with tears of rage and despair.

^ For an excess of butt-related activities

~ It’s still speckled yellow.  But it’s less speckled.  .

~~ Today, however, has been better.  We went to a ROSE GARDEN.

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