Thought for the day

Don't jam your finger in a car door.

Snap, crackle, pop

Bubble wrap. There's no finer invention.

Wet shoes and socks disappeared when I opened up the new heater and found it wrapped in bubbles. My workmates ignored my ecstasy and popping - perhaps they found it distasteful, as if I was masturbating in public (I did have a pretty good smile on my face).

But now it's all popped and I don't think my workmate wants to share the piece of bubblewrap that came with her heater - perhaps she's going to take it home for some private popping.

I've think I'm going to steal her bubblewrap when she goes to the bathroom.

I might have been wrong

Mashed potatoes might actually be as good or even better than a fresh chicken roll. I realised this last night when I was feeling a trifle peckish at about 10.30pm and opened up the fridge where lo and behold I found a bowl of mash.

The thing about mash, though, is that it's got to be good mash. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has suffered through inferior mash. I make acceptable mash. Kruse makes mash of the gods.

And now, off for a pie and pint with the gingers.

The big questions

Is there anything better than a chicken roll?

Nothing - except a cask that I found in the supermarket today labelled 'Good French Wine'.

I really, really hope that somewhere else there is a 'Pretty Good French Wine', 'Very Good French Wine' and a 'Manifique French Wine'. And, of course, waiting hopefully somewhere in a cheap booze shop near you: 'Not So Great French Wine', 'Bad French Wine' and Positively Awful French Wine'. Marvellous marketing ploy, the use of 'good'.

But, yes, Christmas. It started off well, the week leading up to it, with me dodging calls from copy-editors and authors about commas and whatnot, and Skye and I slugging back the bottle of Moet that someone foolishly left at our party the weekend before. Christmas Eve saw us both attempt a run around the block (me looking remarkably attractive in my shorts-and-t-shirt-over-polypro combo), after which we rewarded ourselves with a lunch at the local. Because we deserved it.

Christmas (in a quaint village with 23 houses) went something along the lines of:
More cups of tea that you can poke a stick at (and why would you want to?)
North-Hamptonshire skittle competitions at the local on Christmas Eve
Christmas morning without my mother asking why won't I and my siblings get up and open our presents and drink this here bottle of champagne (very sadly missed, ma)
Mad English relatives that I am not related to and have never met before insisting on kissing me and giving me presents because I am Mike's Katie's orphaned Kiwi friend
The Queen's message (of course)
Dogs
Learning how to set a table properly English country stylez yet being given contradictory directions from people
Brussel sprouts that didn't make me vomit
Charades
Boxing Day races (won 125 pounds because a horsie fell over)
Boxing Night dinner with more relatives, more booze, more mad games and the exciting discovery of a very good bookshelf and suddenly no more was seen of Penelope until it was home time.

And then I got a Kruse. In defiance of the weather Kruse came out of customs wearing a Panama (technically Ecuadorian) hat and jandals. And nothing else.

That last part is a bit of a fib.

But, no time to apologise for that for we were off for a nauseatingly couple-filled New Year's in the Lake District. Three couples in a lonely cottage next to a lake - obviously there ought to be have been some gruesome murders but, sadly, no. However, there was a pub next door (doesn't sound that lonely at all, does it?). Pub was full of what we'd call trampers and the English call ramblers. Many had dogs. One in particular smelled uncannily of blue cheese.

Speaking of cheese - Caro found a really good horseradish cheese. Thoroughly recommended.

And then we came back to London and Kruse already has talked to people about the prospect of him becoming a nerd again, where he will once again earn about a million more pounds than me and I shall have to console myself with the thought that as long as I really enjoy my job, the money doesn't really matter.

But money buys SHOES.

I think what is so very important about a chicken roll is the hotness of the cooked chicken (which I didn't cook but got from the supermarket so it's undoubtedly full of evil additives and preservatives and cocaine and possibly soylent green) and the freshness of the roll.