Tag Archive: fish & chips

This week went quick!

friday25First it was Monday. Then we had a holiday Wednesday, and now it’s Friday already.

Mind you, I’m not complaining!

I’m always pleased to see Friday. Especially this Friday, because I have no classes today.

The weekend is already underway.

I finally managed to get the BBQ dishes finished. I have been to the supermarket.

I increased my wine collection by three…


And as soon as I stop blathering here, I’m off to cook lunch.

Yesterday during my peregrination I bought one of these…



When I got home, I turned it into these…


Lixo will be pleased, because he gets the scraps of raw fish as I slice the fillets into a friable size.

Now It will become this…

Fish and Chips

Fish ‘n Chips

Doesn’t that look yummy?

The rest of the day will be spent – relaxing!

I may/may not get some more blogging done. I have a swag of likes and comments to reply to. I always, well, nearly always visit the blogs of those who comment/like, so there is a lot to do today and I still have three blogs to post on and a nap to have.

That should take me through to dark.

I Still Smell

Yes, despite a shower and several hours passing, I still smell like a BBQ. I tried my cheap deodorant and that just made me smell like a cheap BBQ. You can read about my cheap deodorant here, I made some surprising discoveries about it.

Early part of the BBQ

My birthday BBQ was a success, started at 3pm, finished cooking some pork ribs for the local kids at 10pm. I got home at 11.30, which is way past my normal bedtime. I drank lots of beer, smoked far too much, talked a lot and generally had a good time. I had a lot more meat than was needed, so much was left over that I may do it again on Friday.

I went to pay my bill at the bar and Reimundo charged me for the bag of charcoal; I asked about the beer, that was when he told me one of my students had picked up the tab. Sometimes, despite frustrations with them, I do really like my students.

My alarm went off at 5.30am, I wasn’t pleased. I didn’t really want to get up and go to work. My mind was fuzzy, not from the beer, but the lack of sleep. I had to force myself into action, whereas I normally spring nimbly stagger lamely, but willingly out of bed.

I had fish & chips for lunch and then it was nap time. I have not long woken, and now I have about a half hour before I am off to class again.

So, I will see if I can squeeze another post or two out.


Doing Nothing, just remembering

That’s what I promised to do this weekend.

Basically, I have achieved nothing much, apart from a little blogging yesterday.

I had meant to blog here too, in fact the “Add New Post” page has been open since about yesterday lunch time, and I am now preparing lunch today.

Fish ‘n’ Chips, that wonderful English standby.

I had several ideas about what to blog yesterday, but then that great dark cloud loomed over the horizon; you know the one that prevents you from thinking clearly.

One of the ideas was prompted by an image I came across in my vast archives.

Yes, an old fashioned razor strop.

This was the most feared weapon in our house. Not the razor, my father had some tucked away in an old cigar box in his writing desk; but the strop.

You see that was what Bush would have called a WMD. With this in the middle drawer we were subdued in acquiescence. It didn’t even need to be taken out of the drawer, which was the ‘junk draw’ in the kitchen. The mere knowledge that this existed was an unwritten guarantee of exemplary behaviour. I can only remember the sting once. I was about five, and I had disturbed my father’s sleep in by waking my little brother. My pyjama pants were down, I was bent across the bed and the strop applied. The harsh slap of leather on bare flesh, once felt, never forgotten.

Today, of course, I could rat on my parents for being so brutal and probably divorce them or something.

It’s not that my parents were into brutality, but I do remember the omnipresence of that strop. I can remember one time my mother, who was a little on the plump side of thin, chasing myself and my younger brother town the yard to the orchard where like a couple of cats treed by a rabid dog we sought safety in an apple tree. Our giggling at our narrow escape only served to enrage her with threats of, “just wait till your father gets home!” I don’t remember the final act of that particular play, nor the reason that prompted her to chase us down the yard in the first place.

So it was last night that my mother called, she is now 88 and I am 60; she calls me each Saturday for a chin-wag. Last Saturday she didn’t. That has happened before, but last night her voice was frail, I could hear it. She needs heart surgery, but her body is not strong enough, but this wasn’t the problem this time; her body is just worn out. On her own admittance, she didn’t ring earlier in the week, she didn’t have the strength to manage the phone. Whereas, the week before she needed hospitalisation, she was driving her car.

If you understand cricket; no batsman was ever sneezed at for a respectable innings of 88 not out, but we know innately when we are facing our final over; and this was tacitly understood between us last night. Myself, being the eldest child, I was always my mother’s confident, she would tell me things that she never dared tell my father. As we hung up last night, we each said, “I love you,” which we haven’t said to each other for many, many years.

So with that, later. Maybe there will be a Sunday Travel Tales, maybe there won’t.

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