It's me again! Little me, back again, updating you all on this blog. Once a year is like, plenty enough, for anyone isn't it? That's what SJP says!
Well, Darryl and Jordan got together with each other and I got feeling a bit left out, so I started seeing Marcus again, and he didn't like sharing the bed with me and Darryl and Jordan, which I so didn't get, as I was lovely and toasty-warm and there was always someone to cuddle, so the next thing I know he's saying that someone has to sleep on the couch.
How the hell did that someone end up being me? I slept there one night, with my Buffy slippers and my Jersey Shore dressing gown and this fleecy blanket thing that Ethel brought back from some third-world country she visited (oh God, I mean, Ethel. Like you would!) and I woke up all cold and stiff and unloved and I decided enough was enough, so I moved back in with Mummy for a week. Mummy was just back from touring in an aquavan so she was all like Cher in Mermaids and she and I just drank Limoncello all week and had a great time.
But then on Thursday Mummy sobered up a little and went down to the house in the country to feed the dogs or something, and said that when she came back she wanted to see that I'd done something productive. Like, totes not going to happen! I nearly had a job once, working in some miserable little council office where they implement government housing policies or something, and I remember distinctly this woman there with a bad perm and brown teeth who kept making everyone feel bad about themselves, and like, there's just no way I could have a job after that. I mean, her dress clashed with her boots, and I'm sure that if I'd seen her bra and knickers I'd have taken my own straight off and given them to her as a spontaneous act of charity.
But Mummy's insistent, and she pointed out that I had this little blogette and said she wanted to see me adding an entry to it.
"The kitchen's empty," she said. "We sent the cook off with the children when Social Services picked them up to make sure that they wouldn't be undernourished in some council estate somewhere, so it's not even like the last one where she just died in there and no-one noticed for a week." (I remember that, that was the week I was on my toast-and-cigarettes diet, and when I finally got to the toast part I found the cook face down in the dirty dish-water in the sink.) "Go and cook something and then write about it. You're really good with words and verbs and things, so show me. Make me proud."
So like, anyway, she's totes so, like, correct about me and words. I've got verbiage coming right out of my fingers! So I went and had a look at the kitchen.
So there was this dried pasta stuff, long, thin, brittle, and there was some red sauce stuff in a jar, and I thought, people eat pasta when they've got no money don't they? And I realised then that I could add human interest to this blog by cooking for like, poor people, like the gardener and the pool boy and his deaf sister and people like that. So I thought, let's give it a try.
So, I put the brittle pasta stuff in a glass dish and put it in the oven to bake it. I put the sauce, Tabby-cat or Tabsi-Cola or something like that – it was just a little bottle but I thought that the pasta was supposed to be the main ingredient so it didn't matter – in a pan to boil, and then I realised that I should pick out a wine to go with it.
Then I remembered that Mummy has a Sommelier to pick out wines, so I found him in the wine cellar, crying for some reason, and showed him what I was cooking. And you know, it was amazing! One minute he's really upset about something, and then when he realises what a wonderful person I am, cooking for poor people, he really cheers up and ever starts laughing, though there might still have been some tears there as well. I invited him to dinner, but he said that he's just had his stomach stapled and can't eat for a week. What a good idea!
I got the gardener and the pool boy in and got the baked pasta out of the oven, but it didn't look very different to me, and poured the boiling sauce over it, and there really wasn't all that much of it. I served it up, and they looked up at me with this look in their eyes that I couldn't interpret at first, and then I realised that it must be gratitude, which I never see from people like Edith. It actually made me want to cry a little then, so I encouraged them to eat up and went out in the hall to have a little cry and be impressed with how... noble I am.
When I came back in they'd eaten it all up and were already back at work. They're dedicated, saintly people, and I have decided that I shall cook lunch for them everyday now.