Breakfast to Brighton Run
Friday night is fight night.
It takes me three hours to get from London to the cottage.
The cottage is dusty and dank because Gae, my organiser, cleaner and general bitchesbody is now living in Kuwait more weeks than not. I cannot believe the difference one day makes in the life of two working thesps.
I hate the idea of the old Git hoovering for two reasons.
One he doesn't and
Two when he does he doesn't.
Its something about men being from Mars and Women coming from somewhere else where we're taught to juggle plates, babies, jobs, bank accounts and humour.
I arrived home half-way through Armando Innucis 'Charm Offensive', having been stuck behind slow 4x4's and fast boy racers who have more money than sense.
I walked in, Jim and I were so pleased to see each other and then the bickering started.
We calmed down over our Friday Night Curry, although I was SO tired I couldn't finish my half of the bargain.
Doggy bag in tact we arrived home just in time for Johnathan Ross, a quick serf through the HD channels and then a double mattress collapso.
My eyes peeled open when the radio alarm went off on a sunny Saturday morning.
I dropped off my very expensive courtesy vehicle and collected my extremely expensive mended car.
It was so good to be back in my bucket.
On with the music, out in the sunshine and a drive to my hairdressers.
I was early so I found a cafe to have breakfast in - loose term for what appeared before me. I should have smelt a rat when nobody else was in there. The woman - another loose term -who was chief cook and bottle washer had negelected the bottles and left her cookery skills in a Baby Belling somewhere in Hastings Old Town.
She didn't take plastic, preferring to cook and serve it instead, so I had to find an ATM.
The weather was glorious. Her full English was not. The sausage - well it wasn't. The Bacon were bits of over fired swine. She only had me to cook for but she managed to crack the yoke of the egg before she threw it into a frying pan and then unsult the living daylights out of it. It was shreaded over the baked beans like an old cleaning sponge. The toast was passable and the SUN newspaper was useful for mopping up the drips that she had left on my table in the window.
Why did I stay and eat it you may ask. Well I was very hungry, due to being very tired and to be honest I knew if I paid for my breakfast she would be able to live another day.When I handed over her £4.50 I nearly gave her a tip which was;
'Don't give up your day job.
But I remained silent. To be fair she was wearing a hat under which her greasy hair had been crammed but it was the rest of her that needed attention. She had a kind of subliminal grime. The cafe was opposite the hospital so I thought should anything occur, small intestinallywise I wouldn't have far to run. No pun intended....
My hairdresser gave me healing, digging her fingers in my shoulders and making me cry. I did go in looking like curdled milk, and came out looking more like a fresh bio yogurt. She had disguised my aging follicles and given me a burst of energy.
The 'Oosbind and I drove down to Brighton to see an exhibition in the arches on Madeira Drive. My second cousins canvasses and various other painters and decorative artists were hanging their work. A photographer took picures and after oohing and aahing Jim and I found a cafe on the front the best to eat seaside food.
Zoe and the grand-Maia-daughter arrived and the eating continued. Giles, Tim, Jenna and Louis arrived and the second round of fish, chips, water, shandy, ice cream and mayo turned up. By the time the sun was sinking we were bloated but benigne.
The sea was clean and inviting so we all ran down over the stones, touched the cold water, screamed into the wind, danced, laughed and hugged each other good bye.
The drive out of Brighton was easy, passing the Fiery Food Festival, two years ago I would have attended and talked about it on GFL, this year I just drove past.
By the time we got to Lewes I could feel my breakfast.
Jim drove like the clappers and I just made it in time. Six hours to the pip and my body was revolting as was that fry-up. Never again.
Today I've interviewed Mrs. Mopp, made stewed apples, vacuumed everywhere, shopped for supper and am about to make supper for me, him the girl and her beau.
A good weekend I think, although lodged inside my solar plexus is a bundle of unadulterated terror. Instead of watching that wreteched Tess- I think it is unutterably slow and pretentious with more good pictures than acting - I shall think about that evening in October.
The Virginia creeper is a glorious bergundy.
I know we haven't had summer, but whenever it arrives I love autumn. I'm off now to prepare supper.
Have a good evening.
Jeni Barnett tells of her scrumptious time at Good Food Live in her first audiobook! Download NOW from iTunes