The dark side of a cream pastry

Sleeping and eating are two things that don’t really go together. True, they both involve a degree of drooling, but I think that’s where the similarities end.

The other day, at 6.30am in the morning I was simultaneously doing both. Not literally of course. As far as I know I have never engaged in sleep-eating. That would be a akin to sleep-walking, bedwetting, insomnia and other night-time predicaments of the same ilk.

But I did wake up at 6.31am having just chomped my way through a cream pastry, with lots of cream. This was of course a dream. The crème de la crème of dreams? I think not.

To put the dream in context (if possible): I had just had some disagreeable exchanges with a couple of acquaintances about my parking… or possibly my driving… something to do with how I was managing my car. The venue was a school… or possibly a golf course… some sort of complex. This was complex alright. I have got into trouble before about trying to understand dreams in my blog, but my subconscious response to this form of road-rage it would seem, is to chomp my way through a cream pastry. Did I mention it had lots of cream?

A harmless dream? Compared to the endless possibilities of terror and surrealism potentially lurking in the mind, perhaps. But I immediately awoke and had that sickly taste in the back of my mouth, signalling I had been starved of water during the night. One thing I certainly didn’t feel like doing was eating a cream pastry, and yet that was the only thing on my mind, having just ‘enjoyed’ one. I had been force-fed in my sleep.

This is almost enough to be put off cream pastries for life. Which is a shame, because I quite liked cream pastries. The whole ordeal put me off my breakfast, although by the time I had enjoyed a brisk walk to the station, my appetite was beginning to return. I needed something for the journey

“What would you like?” asked the woman behind the food counter.

The man at the head of the queue scratched his head before seeing something and his eyes lit up. “Can I have one of these cream pastries, please?”

The language of signs

“Please ring the doorbell”.

This was written on a piece of paper nailed to someone’s front door, which I spotted as I passed by. I wasn’t intending to stop. I was intending to pass by, continuing my walk down the street on my way from A to B.

Signs are all too common of course, but often they have a disgruntled edge to them. Sometimes you feel signs are telling you off, before you’ve done anything at all. “Keep off the grass!”, “No Ball Games”, Private. Keep Out!”. Don’t do this, Don’t do that, they read.

But it is rarer to see an invitation through signage. This sign was clearly and unequivocally inviting me to ring the doorbell. So I did what it said and walked on, content that I had satisfied the intentions of whoever it was that wanted their doorbell rung.

It didn’t take long to find out. The door opened and someone began shouting abuse at me. Apparently, they didn’t want their doorbell rung after all. At least, not by me.

The following week I was walking down the street on my way from the same A to the same B, when I spotted a piece of paper nailed to the same someone’s front door. It read:

“Please ring the doorbell (EXPECTED VISITORS ONLY)”.

I sensed a disgruntled edge.

A letter to Father Christmas

It’s been a few years since I have written a letter to Father Christmas, but I thought this was the year to rejuvenate my petitions to the red-coated philanthropist.

A one-and-a-half star curry

At the weekends it is my responsibility to cook. Naturally, I try and fill the weekends with meals out and takeaways, but there are only so many friends we have and only so much money to be spent on takeaways. Therefore, very occasionally, I have to cook.

My culinary efforts are much better these days. I have got through the rebellious and experimental phase of my twenties with my digestive system intact. I no longer feel the need to stir-fry strawberries or add cider to the chicken. I have settled down now and am even following the odd recipe.

On this occasion, I decided to cook a curry. Just to expand on my growing reputation of chef extraordinaire, I should emphasise that this was not just adding a curry sauce from a jar. This was the bona fide real deal. Thus, I dusted off the turmeric, found the cumin that was hiding in the corner of the cupboard and added the curry powder to the mix with a great deal of care and a steady hand.

At the end of the meal, I needed to leave the table (after asking the permission of the chef) to blow my nose. This was something, I did not once, but twice, although the second one was just to finish off the job, so to speak.

In my experience, nose-blowing is the sign of a good curry. This gives rise to a rating system, where the number of nose blows equates to the number of stars that the curry merits. I can never remember rating a curry above three stars, which means that my curry (one-and-a-half nose blows) was half as good as the best curry I have ever eaten. Impressive!

The next day, I got up and had to blow my nose. I did so again in the late morning, and once more in the afternoon. I realised that I did not cook a one-and-a-half star curry. I had a cold.

Lest We Forget – Alas I Forgot

I have a confession to make. I made a bit of a mess of this year’s Armistice Day commemorations.

It was 5.03pm on 11th November when I began to wonder why there hadn’t been a moment of silence. Normally, when I am at work, there is an announcement or at least, an indication that now is the time to observe silence and remember the sacrifice of war. One minute, once a year. It doesn’t take much! And yet, this year I was deprived of this moment, because no-one reminded me. Naturally, I would have stopped to remember… had I remembered.

The day I found culture (and lost it again)

I recently had the opportunity to go to a classical music concert. So far in my life, I have managed to avoid such a thing – although I should probably clarify I haven’t deliberately avoided it – I just haven’t actively chosen it.

The wrong seat

Are you sitting carefully?… Then I’ll begin.

I exited out of the airport, hailed a taxi and then made a faux-pas. It seems that convention in Germany does not involve customers driving themselves to their destination. I forgot that in Germany, the steering wheel is not on the right side (by that I mean the left hand-side as I wouldn’t want to imply there is a wrong side to the placement of the steering wheel). I joked with the driver to hide my embarrassment, but he did not understand English well, so I must have seemed like an idiot foreigner who attempted to steal his cab and then babbled incoherently.

The glorious Nokia C3-01

I haven’t blogged on this site for a while because I’ve been deciding what phone to get. I was going out of my mind, weighing up the permutations of network providers, text/talk options, which shop to walk into and not forgetting the phone itself, with its size, battery life, camera quality, type of keyboard, touch screen or no touch screen options. I was starting to wish for communism with its simple any-colour-you-like-as-long-as-it’s-black philosophy. As a result, I had been out-of-contract for five months.

A honeymoon for three (part 2)

The most convenient way to see other parts of the island of Mauritius was to hire a taxi driver for the day. This was ideal -we would benefit from his local knowledge, while having complete control of our itinerary, all for a price of just 35K rupees, which we had negotiated the night before. Bargain!

A honeymoon for three (part 1)

This blog seems to be descending into an obsession about various creatures. Having successfully rid the attic of mice (now succeeded by a family of birds), criticised made-up pets and been reminded of bears in wooded settings, the honeymoon would be an opportunity to escape from this madness… or so I thought.