Comfort Food and Raunchy TV

Ah, the life of the landscaper’s wife – another Saturday night home with no-one but the dog for company.

Hubby’s out of town, as usual, doing his thing at his tree farm (Shame on you … I didn’t mean ‘doing‘ his ‘thing‘, I meant pruning or something).  The children are all off doing whatever it is teenagers do on a Saturday night.

So, it’s me, fried chicken, chocolate and ‘The Secret Diaries of a Call Girl’. Thank goodness I didn’t start watching it with any of the children -it’s all Billie Piper (Rose from Doctor Who) cavorting around naked with a string of male clients and female co-workers.  She even slept with Matt Smith (the actual Doctor Who, but not Rose’s which is a good thing because that might have exploded my head).

I had to close the curtains in case the neighbours thought I was watching porn and either reported back to hubby or came to join in.

You forget how tame Canadian TV is until you watch something English.  And North Americans call us uptight!

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Strange as Fiction

So, there we were, Hoss and I, watching Doctor Who and lamenting the fact that yet another season has come and gone.  Really … this one was about 5 episodes, and it just wasn’t good enough.

So, we thought, we should rush out and buy another season on DVD – maybe some David Tennant and Rose, or the first season of Matt Smith.  Well, when you have an awesome idea like that it’s hard to be deterred by the mere fact that all the shops are closed.  Except, of course, for WalMart, which never closes because who knows when one might need to buy a bath mat or plastic food containers at 11 o’clock at night?

Unbelievably, the first WalMart we tried didn’t have a single Doctor Who DVD.  Neither did the second; or Superstore.  They clearly need to get their priorities straight.

So, empty of hand and heavy of heart, we headed for home.  “Stop”, shouted Hoss, “that little store has a big DVD sign and a Doctor Who poster in the window – and it’s open!”  And there it was, beckoning invitingly with its TARDIS bedecked window, and filling us with hope for the Who-Fest to come.

Strangely, neither of us remembered ever having seen the store before – right at the edge of a row of shops, and next to some undeveloped wasteland.  But, not one (or two) to look a gift horse in the mouth, we parked outside and rushed over.

What a strange little shop, with its crumbling brickwork and windows so grimy that it was hard to see in.  The ancient, peeling paintwork was a colour which, nowadays, would probably be described as frosty mint, but which, back in its day, was more likely just called blue/green.

The door stuck at first, but a shoulder-shove got it moving enough to creak it open, jangling a bell hanging overhead.  From the darkness behind the counter, a scratchy, disconnected voice said “Come on in.  What can I help you with?”  A head of dark, greasy hair popped up to join the voice, and we were confronted with a gray, partly toothed smile belonging to a stooped figure as ancient as his paintwork.

We had already found a display of Doctor Who DVDs, so, in our rush to escape the cobwebs and thick, musty air we grabbed a season each of David Tennant and Matt Smith, paid our money and left.

We giggled together as we burst back into the sunshine and felt a cleansing breeze ripple over our crawling skin.  “That was weird”, said Hoss, “I can’t even remember seeing anything else in there apart from that one rack of movies.  Did you notice what else they sold?”  “Now that you mention it, I’m not really sure either” I replied, but didn’t think any more of it.

But here’s where it gets really strange … passing the same row of shops the next day, Hoss and I noticed that the store was no longer there.  We were both certain that’s where it had been, but there was no sign of it ever having existed.  I’ve been looking as I drive around the city, but I can’t find that little store anywhere.

Okay, I made all that up, but it’s how we wished the expedition had ended, and it seems like a much more interesting story than “they didn’t have any, so we went home”.

Time-Travelling Back to My Youth

Drat … after four days of being the birthday girl it’s all over and I stopped being special.

It took 50 years to get here, and if it’s downhill all the way from here I’m okay with that.  I’m too tired to be struggling uphill anyway.

You may be surprised to hear that August is not the best month to be having a birthday celebration – lots of people were away, though it boggles my mind why anyone would have chosen to miss my party in favour of room service; sun, sand and sea; a quiet spot away from cellphone coverage; or mojitos on demand.  Okay, I’m starting to see the flaw in that train of thought.

Having said that the party was just the right size – we saw lots of people we haven’t seen for a long time, and actually got to have a proper chat with most of them.  I usually find that being the hostess, flitting round cheerily making sure that everyone has a drink and someone to talk to can be strangely unsatisfying.  You see everyone, and connect with no-one.

This time we got to catch up with all those people we only ever see at special events.  It used to be weddings, but it’s trending distressingly towards funerals.  Soon, I suppose, we’ll be back to weddings as our children start to tie the knot.

A Doctor Who cake – complete with sonic screwdriver, dalek, cyberman and even a rift in the space time continuum!

Anyway, the highlight of the party was undoubtedly the cake … best cake ever!  Is it possible that I am the only 50-year old ever to have a Doctor Who cake?

It sounds like it took quite a bit of co-ordination, explanation and emailing of photos to get a Canadian cake-maker to create Doctor Who decorations – and let’s not even wonder what she thought of the fact that it was for an adult.

To the uninitiated it may appear to have a crack in the icing, but clearly that is a cleverly crafted rift in the space-time continuum.  Fortunately nothing scary sneaked through before we cut into it.

I think we can now say unequivocally that I have sacrificed any right I may have had to assume the occasional air of dignity or maturity.

Now, having blazed the trail for my toy-boy husband (he’s not 50 until March), and most of our friends, I can sit back and get on with the day to day business of just being me again.