Thursday, 6 October 2016

Touch of grey...

So I was rather proud of myself yesterday.  You'll remember that there was a serious amount of baking which went on in my kitchen on Tuesday, the results of which were destined for Binland and all who serve there.  I struggled to get the large Coffee and Walnut Cartwheel through the front door of Binland, but a colleague was on hand to open the door fully, so that I didn't have to tilt the cake at a precarious angle to get through.  All this and holding a crammed handbag, a flask of soup and thirty fairy cakes.  It was a miracle that everything arrived unscathed.  Having said that, it was a close call with the soup, which had fallen over in my handbag.  That would not have been pretty if it had leaked into the bag, and it  reminded me of a particularly raucous visit to Ascot, involving much alcohol, a feathered hat, a bumpy bus ride home and an open handbag.  I'll let you put the pieces of the puzzle together, but needless to say, the bag went in the bin and the bus driver got a larger than necessary tip.

Going back to Binland, everyone had surpassed themselves in the bid to make some serious money for Macmillan.  There were sausage rolls (these were all gone within four minutes of the cling film being removed). quiche, chocolate cakes, flapjack and a million other goodies, all created with the sole purpose of widening of the waistlines. 

I have been doing really well on my 'reining it in' lifestyle, and no amount of delicious cake was going to make me stray from the path of righteous Ryvita.  Of course this had nothing to do with the fact that I had forgotten my key card, so all access to the canteen was out of the question unless I borrowed a card from a colleague.  You know what it's like, I might as well have carried a large sandwich board with 'Can I borrow your key card?  This fat old bird wants sausage rolls and chocolate cake.  Don't get in my have died for less'.  No, I went without and rewarded my tenacity with a trip to the cinema preceded by a very small glass of Malbec.

I had arranged to go and see Bridget Jones (again) with two lovely friends, Mrs B and Mrs H.  A most pleasant hour and a half was spent lusting after Patrick Dempsey/Jack, with all three of us incredibly disappointed when Ms Jones tied the know with Mr Darcy (apologies if this has ruined the film for you, but if you haven't seen it by now, then you deserve the big spoiler).  Mrs H is Italian, and she was most vocal (throughout the film) as to who she would have chosen given half the chance.  I was relieved that a lot of her outbursts were in Italian, as the gentle folk of Henley are easily offended.

Mrs B googled him on the short drive home, and apparently, this Mr Dempsey has been in several other films and television programmes, all of which have passed me by.  So I am thinking of introducing the husband to another box set.  He and daughter number one are working their way through 648,239 episodes of Prison Break, and I have calculated that sometime in April 2019 they will have watched the last episode.

Move over bald, sweating ex-cons, there's a new kid in town. and his name is Mr Dempsey.

Grey's Anatomy anyone?
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