Bread and Blogging

I realise that I have neglected writing for a while and I have decided to kick myself in to gear. I have been writing but I admit it’s mostly been cricket match reports and that, for the majority, carries almost no interest at all I know!

One of the other writing projects that I undertook was to submit something for a “zine”. In fact this is a foodie zine Cakes and Canapes compiled by my good friend Miriam Nice who was a large part of the inspiration for this blog initially. Her blog inspired publication features articles and illustrations centred around a particular food stuff each issue and I am proud to say I managed to have a short, cautionary (fictional) tale included in the 1^st edition. Please do have a look at www.cakesandcanapes.co.uk to find out more. There’s a Facebook group, you can follow Mim on twitter, purchase the zine and she has a blog that I follow which is an entertaining cocktail of life and food combined.

I will be writing soon to update anyone who cares to have a read on: Boys Week (holiday), The Diet (low/no carbs…ouch), Temping (yes I have work for now), sporting conduct (cricket season is in full swing) and the rest that life has to offer in the meantime! For now I hope that you enjoy my submission for C&C.

Bread - A Cautionary Tale

The other day my mate told me that the best thing to do, with regard to my ensuing wifely predicament, would be to use my loaf. Annoyed, I swung my lunch box at him, catching him flush across the forehead. He angrily enquired “What’d you do that for?” to which sadly, I didn’t really have an answer that would most likely have made him happy.  Nope, no retrospectively suitable remarks what would’ve satiated his growing ire not to mention lump swelling on his aforementioned bonce.

As he lent forward, hands thrust throatwards with all the intention in the world to throttle the last breath from my very own soul transporter, it dawned on me that, now, his erstwhile words of wisdom made a crystal clear sense in my mind. Quick as a flash I opened my box and offered him a sandwich with a quippy remark of “you told me to use my loaf”. I paused, expecting the worst if I’m honest with you. Imagine my relief when he reached forwards and examined my crusty sacrifice. He was becalmed enough, whilst demolishing my egg and cress, to reduce his threat level to a mild distain and whilst he munched away, murmurs of satisfaction oozing between bites, my mind wandered to the international peace keeping power of the sandwich. Well, to put it more precisely, a loaf of bread.

We’re a simple race with simple needs. Given each worsening famine or fledgling war is proceeded by a sack loads of flour or loaf after crusty loaf of being dished out from the back of a flatbed to the suffering, embittered and impoverished it would appear to be a multinational success story. Bread. The simplest of things. The noblest of things. Saviour of the hungry and bringer of calm and reassurance. It turns out my disfigured companion had had the most valid of points and his initial, irreverent recommendation was not without its merits.

In fact it turns out that whilst a useful, if accidentally insightful point, it wasn’t a theory that could be applied to every conceivable situation. Specifically mine. When I approached my good lady wife, tea in one hand and glistening butter covered thick white sliced toasted glory in the other, suggesting that we could talk out our recent difference of opinion and rebuild a loving relationship with the most basic of food stuffs as the cornerstone foundation, she, so it happened, disagreed. Apparently bread, no matter the quality or covering whether it be Golden Churn or love itself, will not rebuild all bridges. Especially those burned by being found in the marital bed chamber with one’s very own secretary. I also found out that hot butter and scolding tea make evil bed fellows when combined in what can only politely be described as a vicious assault! 

I do salute you, bread, for all the good in the world that you may well do. Poverty and warzones may, for want of a better phrase, your bread and butter. However I regret to announce that it would appear not even bread can repair the damage caused by crumpet.

Socks are Bread

Two days back at work and what little enthusiasm that there was yesterday has now dried up like a Northern Irishman’s shower. Fortunately our systems went down so we could all end the pretence of actually doing some work and concentrate on “the big catch up”. How was Christmas? What did you do for New Years? Yes, didn’t we all eat ourselves to death and of course that new scarf, hat, jumper or necklace looks great. The chances are it doesn’t but what can you do? An office of myself and three middle-aged women is no place for honesty. What am I going to say? Spent the holidays drinking, eating more chocolate than Nigella on a self-loathing trip, playing video games and masturbating my way through a lonely New Year’s Eve, what about you?

We finally came on to a conversation of interest. What was the crappest Christmas present that you got? Now this may seem shallow since all, well most, gifts are given with thought and earnest good will. But somehow, each year, someone we know will just get it wrong. In our office one woman was given a notebook, address book and diary without dates written in which was immediately issued to her 4 year old to doodle in at her whim. I must admit this colleague isn’t the sharpest tool in the box (she has the cutting precision of a ladle in fact) so she may well be surprised in time that the notebook has dates on each page. Still I want to put forward a contender for crappest Christmas present and it was a controversial one in the office at least. Socks.

My Aunt is an incredibly generous soul. A quirky character but an old school matriarchal one, albeit without children of her own. But I need to stress I’m not talking the mandatory Christmas socks that are a necessity during the yuletide period. I’m talking black sports socks. I am a fully grown adult. No matter how hard I try to ignore the fact or act otherwise I have reached a level of self sustainability that means I can fend for myself. This, novelty additions aside, means that socks are for all intent and purpose bread. When I need bread I can buy bread. When I need socks I can buy socks.



Surely better than socks

Socks didn’t win the debate in the office. In fact neither did the books. That prize was taken, without the owner’s knowledge, by a luminous green plastic hedgehog thing from a local art gallery (pictured) that we have since found out is a cheese grater! But, ever the sore loser, I’d just make a plea to anyone that whenever you are looking for a treat or gift for that someone special, before making the purchase, remember. Socks are bread.