Saturday, September 29, 2012

Come into my parlour

This spider is going to be well-fed for the foreseeable future.

Why would you wash a dress inside out?

I've been having an apathetic sort of afternoon. I know why it is: I'm speaking in prison tomorrow and that always creates a tension in me.

I've planned my talk and it's split into 3 sections. I'm fine on the first, almost there on the second but struggling with the third. You see, the first two are more narrative and follow on logically. One sentence kick-starts another in my memory. But the third bit, although it's logical and does sort of follow, doesn't have the flow of the other bits. Ah well, I'll just have to refer to my notes if I get stuck.

But it means I haven't been able to apply myself to anything this afternoon. (Listen to me! As if I normally spend my Saturday afternoons productively!)

What I have done this afternoon is:
watch two episodes of Come Dine With Me - and hear in my head my grandmother tutting her disapproval for watching television in the day;
discover I have more odd shoes than matching pairs in my wardrobe;
bemoan once again my lack of housewifely skills (why do you wash a dress inside out?);
and wonder if I can use upholstery cleaner on my handbag.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

And then the meter man came ... again

Wednesday morning the meter man came.

I was in work and he had to call me to get the keys. We're very security-conscious: we even lock up our meters. He was an unusually cheerful meter man and as I hovered while he read the electric meter he exclaimed, from inside the understairs cupboard, 'Would you look at this?'
I assumed it was rhetorical but he stuck his head out and said, 'Have you seen this meter?'
I had, several times, but his voice suggested something amazing had happened to it. Maybe its position as a church meter had led to it taking on the shape of the Virgin Mary. Perhaps we would be the next place to have a simulacrum that would feature in tabloid newspapers and and dodgy internet sites.
I squeezed in behind him. 
I was disappointed: it looked exactly the same as ever.
'Do you know how to read this?' he said.
He shook his head. 'They don't teach you this when you become a meter man. You have to work it out for yourself.'
I was pleased it made his day.

I was slightly less pleased later on when he came back.

He asked if he could use the toilet. 'There's nowhere round here and I saw your car was here.'
Which was fine except you can't see the car park from the road and I was alone in the building. 'Don't be stupid,' I said to myself as I let him in. He's a nice man. He's not going to hurt you.'
My inner voice argued, 'They're probably all nice men. To begin with ...'
I waited in the kitchen for him and I spotted the phone. I dithered for a moment then I called Husband. 'Hello,' he said.
'Talk to me for a bit,' I said.
'Why? Who are you trying to avoid?' (He knows me so well.)
'I'll explain in a minute.'

Meter man left and I locked the door behind him. Was I being paranoid? Or aware? 

I'm sure he was just a nice friendly man.

And then there was the low

Tuesday morning I drooped.

My these days usually cheerful mood - ecstatically cheerful recently - disappeared and was replaced by that once familiar knotted stomach. The black cloud was so real, its gloomy pressure tangible, that apathy encased me like a barrier of thorns.

I'd almost forgotten what it was like. An old enemy that once held sway over my life, shredding it to miserable little pieces. I am so glad I'm not in that place any more.

Tuesday's decline was temporary; by late evening it had passed.  But its memory and the reminder of how I used to be frightened me. I don't want to go there again.

I need to bounce that's what it is! The weather - and my poorliness - has stopped me getting out there and bouncing; I must bounce. I need to bounce! Let there be bouncing. (And maybe chocolate.)

The sun shines on the ...

The most eagerly anticipated literary event of the year ...

happened today: the launch of JK Rowling's first adult novel. 

I didn't even know she was writing one.

I didn't know until well after the event that newspapers had published photos of a topless Kate Middleton. 

Nobody tells me anything.

Don't call us ...

What do you do about persistent cold callers?

Every day of the last week, about 3 times a day, we've had a phone call from British consumer Services. Asking them to stop calling doesn't work; yelling/swearing at them doesn't help; putting the phone down doesn't stop them. Daughter even asked if I thought they might be deliberately trying to wind Husband up as he was getting more and more irate with them.

 It must be costing them money with no return so I'm not sure what they hope to achieve.

We're on the Don't Call Us Register (or whatever it's called) and while it works it's fine but the process you have to go through to make a complaint is so complicated that it's not worth the effort. And I suspect that might only be for British callers anyway so any suggestions? What do you do? How can you make it not worth their while?

Shall I stay or shall I go?

Daughter and family were here over the weekend and while here GrandSon2 went down with a virus, according to the doctor. And he's such a generous lad that he gave it to his granny. I'm not as poorly as he was, just a little throaty and hot, but I feel I'm justified in taking things easy. 

On Tuesday when they left George decided he'd like to go with them while Holly was very happy to remain with us. We couldn't convince Son-in-law it was a good swap.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Why I'll never be a millionaire

I took copies of my book into the bookshop yesterday - the one that had requested some to sell. I chatted with the owner and then we got down to the nitty gritty: how much discount?

In my usual efficient way I said, 'Um, I don't know. What would you like?'
She said, 'Normally, with a local author I'd ask for 20%.'
'That's fine.'
I told her the selling price was £7.99 and she got out her calculator. 'That makes it £6.39 a copy I'll pay you,' she said.
Then I said ... no, wait, can you guess what I said? Husband did when I asked him what he thought my reply would have been.

'Oh, just give me £6 a copy!'

Knickers and strikes

My uncle (the 86-year-old one) and his companion were due to catch the overnight ferry from Santander on Thursday night. Friday morning we received a phone call from him: Brittany Ferries had cancelled sailings because of a strike.

I called him today and they're on their way north to St. Malo where they're booked onto a ferry on Monday - all being well. I spoke to Companion who sounded in good humour and said they'd found some nice places to stay en route and they hadn't argued yet!

I was tempted to ask if she had enough clean knickers. Husband laughs at me when I pack as I take a clean pair for every day plus a spare pair for every day (no, I don't know what I imagine is going to happen either). Still this only proves my point: better to be prepared.

I hope nothing else delays them now. Every year Uncle organises a 'bit of a do', a weekend of family, friends, food and fun. He plans it to coincide with the annual patrons' concert by Dunvant Male Voice Choir - of which he is a patron - and it's next weekend. The 'do' begins with a restaurant meal on the Friday night, followed by the concert on the Saturday after which guests are invited back to Companion's house for a champagne and shepherd's pie supper, rounded off with a catered Sunday lunch party at Uncle's house. (Just had a phone call from him: they've managed to get on a ferry this afternoon so that's good news.)

Yesterday I called in to see my 92-year-old great-aunt to show her some wedding photos. She wasn't at home but I found her coming up the hill with her shopping. I took the bag from her and it was flipping heavy! She does all her own cooking, cleaning, gardening and gets down to the shops every day. Then wonders why she's tired.

I hope I have the constitution of my relatives!

And, talking of knickers, I bought several new pairs to take on holiday with me. Then I kept saving them 'for best', with the result that I brought them all home unused ... except my very expensive matching wedding pair, of course.

I can't help thinking a psychiatrist would have a field day with me and my obsession with knickers ...

Thursday, September 20, 2012

A fine malt in Italy

When we visited Italy in March Younger Son and Fiancée (then) took us to the hotel (Rame in Marene) where the wedding reception would be held. We 'had' to sample about 16 courses to help them finalise their wedding menu. After we'd eaten, the chef came out to talk about the food with them and the discussion also covered the wine we'd have. Somehow the conversation moved on to spirits and Husband must have mentioned that his favourite malt whisky was Lagavulin.

So imagine his delight when a bottle of Lagavulin appeared in front of him after the meal, compliments of the chef!

At the tasting the bride's father couldn't choose between the three desserts offered: at the wedding, while we all had strawberries and ice cream his plate was brought out with all three desserts on it. (I think Husband got the better deal.)  But a hotel with a chef who takes such care of the little details is sure to succeed. I certainly hope it does as all the food - and the whole weekend we spent there - was lovely. Especially the risotto and the ravioli and the braesola salad and seafood salad and the swordfish carpaccio - oh and the nutella cake I had for breakfast ...

Husband's new hobbies

1) He collects horse poo.
George doesn't understand why he gets shouted at if he eats it while 'Dad' is able to take it home with him.

2) He makes jam.
He is very versatile.

Happy birthday, George!

5 today!

And showing off his new collar! (While hoping he's going to get his special birthday kebab!)

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

And I haven't even mentioned the food!

Before the wedding feast began, in case we got hungry while waiting for the bride and groom who'd gone off to have photos taken, canapés and drinks were served outside the hotel. They were all delicious - it was difficult to limit one's self - but I could quite happily have settled down for the afternoon with this hollowed out Grana Padana cheese and grapes.

It's a hard life but someone has to do it

The villa we rented in the Piemonte area of Italy, near Nizza, was an old converted farm house - furnished by Ikea.
We were in the heart of vine-growing country, and the home of Italy's best and most expensive wines, Barolo and Barbaresco
The view from our bedroom window.

Sweet figs from the tree in the garden.

Market day in Asti.

Forty including the dog

That's how many were squeezed into Zac's last night. The number included the regulars, others who used to be but haven't been for a while, and some who were visiting from afar, including a Californian Messianic rabbi and some God Squadders from Australia. Amazingly, it was a well-mannered crowd, being quiet when they should be and contributing at the right times. On the whole.

We were beginning a new series, looking at what church is and comparing the original model in the New Testament with what we see and what we want Zac's to be. As an introduction, Sean asked why people came to Zac's. Here are some of the answers:
because I feel safe here;
because people don't look down on me here;
because you're the man, Sean, and we like to listen to what you say;
because I need this time to help me get through the rest of the week;
because most vicars don't like it if you interrupt them;
for Liz's cakes (this was the excuse of an atheist who comes each week to a bible study);
because you get so many different views and it makes me look at things differently;
because I'm accepted here;
because we're all on a journey together.

One man said, 'I started coming here and finding some faith but then I had health problems and other problems and I began drinking and I went downhill and I was embarrassed and didn't like to come. But I knew I didn't have any option and when one day I saw Sean outside I asked him if I was allowed in. He said,  'Get in there!''

I said, 'I originally came because I thought I could help, in a slightly superior way. You know, I've got all the answers, I can help these poor people, sort of thing. But I've received far more than I could ever give. I love it here; it's the best place to be.'

Is it possible to burst with happiness?

I haven't stopped grinning since, well, the beginning of our holiday really. Apart from stressful times in the car when Husband expected me to navigate in a land where the place names on the sign-posts aren't on the map and anyway sign-posts don't appear  until you're on top of the junction and you have to make an instant decision.
'Look on the map!'
'I'm looking on the map. It's not mentioned.'
'You haven't got your glasses on!'
'Putting my glasses on isn't going to make it appear!'
'Put them on anyway!'
(I put on my glasses and study the map again.) 'See, it's still not there!'

Still, on the grand scale of things, Milan -where we heading - wasn't that far away from Turin - where we were supposed to be heading. Only a little 40 km detour ...

And how can you be expected to concentrate when the scenery is so beautiful? I'll post some holiday snaps soon: I know how everyone just loves to see someone else's holiday photos!

But this post is about how wonderful my life is.

I came home to find a message from the owner of a local bookshop. She'd had requests from customers for my book! And she wanted to buy some copies!!!! 

Then in Zac's last night Kay gave me a Christmas present. 'I'm not mad,' she said, 'but you won't be able to get them at Christmas.' When I'd opened my present she explained how they'd been on special offer, 3 for the price of 2, so she'd bought 3 and given one to Sean, one to me and one to a friend. I was really touched to be in such splendid company. Kay isn't easily impressed - no, that's not the right word - won over, maybe, so it really meant something.

And then - yes, there's more! - it turned out that Andy was there. He hasn't been around for a few months and because I'd kept in touch with him he'd brought me some of his original drawings as well as another special present.

So all in all I just felt unbelievably blessed last night.

I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear ...

but a silver nutmeg - or in my case a single plum. There were two in the beginning but one disappeared early on. 
And I knew I should have picked the remaining one before we went away ...

The archbishop, a potty and me

We flew home from Italy on Sunday. The original plan was to drive straight back to Swansea and then travel up to Derby for Pop's funeral the next day but on the plane Daughter-in-law suggested that we spend the night with them in Surrey. Don't know why we didn't think of it before. Husband was able to get more use out of his new suit but I had to rush into Egham High Street on Monday morning to find myself a frock to wear. I looked in the charity shops - up-market charity shops in Surrey, don't you know - but didn't find anything suitable but fortunately there was a grey hounds-tooth dress in the one clothes shop there. 

We made it up to Derby just in time. The first of Pop's grandchildren had written and read a lovely tribute to him then I prayed. It was very strange praying at the funeral of a man who had for all his life been so vehemently anti-God, especially as I'd forgotten I was supposed to be doing it and had to come up with something on the morning. You can read my effort here.

There were some lovely floral tributes including these two rather unusual ones: Pop loved whisky and crosswords.
And Husband's teddy joined us for the journey home. He'd been found when Sisters-in-law had been emptying the house.
They asked if there was anything else we'd like from what remained and I couldn't resist saying, 'I'd quite like the duck actually.'
You may remember Billy Bass who was popular a few years ago. He was a pretend mounted duck who sang when you switched him on - or maybe when you walked by. The duck is similar; he's definitely activated by motion. I think it's a good reminder of Pop who, as I wrote in a previous post, was a jolly old soul, and it will entertain the grandchildren I'm sure. I'll try and film him later because I just know you'll want to see him!

Oh, and the title of this post? The Archbishop of Canterbury was on the same flight as us - economy class - and he looked up from his seat as I looked at him - and I realised I was carrying a potty.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Why you might want to reconsider your decision to wear a cilt

A little bit of Wales

You wouldn't think I was at this wedding ...

or on the holiday. That's what happens when you're the photographer: no pics. Still here I am captured in all my glory with 'the gang'. My shoes lasted until we got back to the hotel for the reception by which time I could barely walk!


Italy or bust

My 86-year-old uncle and his octogenarian companion drove from Swansea to Italy for the wedding. This is them outside the hotel we stayed in - where the reception was held - just before they set off back home on Sunday morning.

Move it, move it!

After the 10 course wedding feast and before the 4 course supper we had an hour's zumba class. Best Man caught us on camera. But, hey, we oldies lasted it out unlike many of the younger ones!

Must have done us some good as I lost a pound while on holiday. Answer to slimming question is obviously eat lots of Italian food. I can live with that.

Oh what a day!

The day dawned bright and clear.
Groom and his Welsh-Italian best man in their Pride of Wales tartan cilts. It's unusual to have a best man in Italy.
The bridal party approaches.
The bride arrives, 'driven' by her brother, Luca.

The bride and her father. Only the groom is inside the church at this time. everyone else waits outside to greet the bride.
The bride had to try and translate what the priest said - but he kept forgetting and carried on talking so Sabina wasn't able to remember it all. Notice the veil? I wore that at my wedding and Sabina adapted it to suit her style. 
Mr & Mrs leave the church in style.

A toast to the happy couple.
A gift from the Adam, the best man, and his girlfriend, Fee.

And another gift - Italian Welsh cuff links.
Having fun with children and bubbles.
Daughter, Younger Son, Me, Husband and Elder Son - who gradually shed clothes during the day.
Bride and her flower girl.
Who me? As well as throwing her bouquet to the single women, the bride threw her garter to the single men. First throw landed at the best man's feet.

Late in the evening, bride and groom, best man and girlfriend under the bunting we made on the hen day.

Sunday, September 09, 2012

Ooompa-lompah, dubbity-do

Up at a ridiculously early time for a Sunday to discover my legs are the colour of an Oompa-Loopah's. Never mind because a) they will fade, and b) I can sleep in the car.

We're going to Italy! For a holiday with the grandbabies! And a WEDDING!!!!

See you in a week's time!!!!!

Saturday, September 08, 2012

Because Sooty and Sweep need a holiday too

We're meeting Daughter, Elder Son and their families in Gatwick tomorrow, ready to fly out to Italy for a week in a villa before the wedding. It'll be a lot of travelling what with the plane and the drive at the other end so I thought, as a good granny, I should have some surprises in my bag to keep the little ones entertained. And maybe the big ones too. In the toy shop everything was too big and too expensive so it was then that I had my brilliant idea.

I toured the charity shops for their 50p and under bargains and have wrapped them up to create a Granny Bag. They're only wind-up walkers, cars, cuddly things and the like but dipping in, choosing and unwrapping will, I hope, amuse the children for a while.
Sooty and Sweep (hand-puppets, a bargain at 50p each - Sweep even squeaks) were a little large for my bag so they're coming in the suitcase.
And now I have to start the serious business of beautifying myself - bleaching, shaving, fake tanning etc. The things we girls have to do ...

George gets what he deserves

George always embarrasses Husband when he takes him to the kennels. It usually involves food of some kind and George getting what he's not supposed to.

Today he managed to get his snout into a big bag of food and eat three mouthfuls before he discovered it was chicken food. He spluttered and spat it out. A food George doesn't like? Make a note of the day. That's not something that happens often.

At least they know him there now and are no longer fooled by his 'Please feed me, I haven't had breakfast' face. Still I expect he will come home a little rounder than he left.

As will we all.

It was the bubbles that did it

Discovering that the bubbles needed batteries tipped me over the edge. Up until then I'd been coping and reasonably calm. Suddenly it was, 'Givemechocolate, givememorechocolate.' No wonder they were cheap. they didn't even have a blowy stick option.

So it was a case of add to list: buy batteries. Fortunately we'd already collected a litre of Welsh sand and a bag of shells.
What else was there to do? Oh, yes, blow dry my shoes. No, seriously, apparently it's a well-known remedy for shoes that are likely to rub. Put on socks then shoes then give a quick blast of the hair-dryer and allow shoes  to cool down while you're wearing them. I'm not convinced. It doesn't help that they're tight at the front and loose at the back. Ah, yes, add to list: buy heel grips.
I've devised my own solution though. If I wiggle my bum and walk confidently enough no-one will notice me falling over my feet. I hope.

We can do the impossible now; miracles take a little longer. Five days longer apparently. That's what I'm hoping for my poor bitten and tatty nails anyway. 
I'm not sure how my hat will survive the trip. Husband suggested I should wear it on the plane. The thought had crossed my mind but I quickly cast it back to the deep yonder where it belongs. My hat will have to take its chances in the suitcase with the jar of Dolmio, packets of spaghetti and some Parmigiano. Something about coals and Newcastle, yes, I know, but we're arriving late Sunday evening and staying in a rural area so we were charged with bringing some food suitable for all ages.

We won't be taking any panna cotta. That rounded off our Italian meal (and quiz) last night for the friends coming to the wedding. Braesola with rocket, parmigiano and balsamic dressing was followed by lasagne (my usual meaty one not the proper authentic Italian sort).
  It's amazing how little we know about Italy ...

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

It was supposed to be a simple shopping trip

But the word simple and me don't go together. Then again perhaps they do and that's the problem.

Started in the library. I wasn't going to get any books but if I were going to then they'd have to be paperback and light to carry in my luggage - and we all need books to read on holiday, don't we? Even when we suspect holiday with the grandbabies won't leave much time for quiet relaxation. And while I was there I had to check to see if my book was on the shelf. It wasn't, which makes it twice in a row. And I looked everywhere it could possibly be so someone must have borrowed it. Husband pointed out that I could check its availability online but that's too definite. At least this way I can imagine and hope that someone has borrowed it. 

Then the decision. Leave the car parked in the library and walk to Debenhams or take the car to Tesco's car park. Lack of time decreed the latter but then I'd have felt even guiltier about leaving the car there when not shopping in Tesco's than I already did about leaving it in the library car park. And it was only across a few roads so I walked - and then stopped and turned around and walked back. Then stopped again, dithered, then marched resolutely away. 

Daughter'd asked me to look for a little bolero for GrandDaughter to wear to the wedding. I found one and it was in the sale. Good news so far. Bad news was that not only was it in the sale but it was in the Buy Two Get Cheapest One Free section. Yes, I know you'd think that would be good news but you would not believe how long it took me to choose the 'free' item. Everything I liked wasn't available in the right size or was twice the price of the bolero. Several times I made to give up but couldn't walk away 'because it's free.'

Eventually I escaped and headed for the Clinique make-up section where I wanted advice on foundation colour. I ended up buying a full set of make-up. For the wedding. And heading off to Sainsburys looking and feeling like a lady out on the town. (Although when I finally got home Husband couldn't see any difference.)

So that was my day. Simple.

Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Too rushed to come up with a sensible title

Remember I bought a new exercise bra? I wore it for the first time last night when thrive circuit training started again after the summer hols.

Madame Fifi must have confused me with a stick insect who'd swallowed 2 oranges because she shoe-horned me into a 32E. (I'm usually 34). Strangely enough it was quite comfortable and I hardly wobbled at all. And when I did it was far less low slung.

* * * * * * * *
Note to self
Power-assisted doors do not open automatically no matter how long you wait. Or swear under your breath at them. 

So what is the point of them really? Just to see how many people they can catch out? I suppose if you work in a bank - and it's usually banks who have these doors - spotting fools brightens the day no end.

Picnics and potatoes

There is a house further along the road from us that has storybook house written all over it. Not fairy tale, more Enid Blyton or Barbara Pym - no, not Pym, her houses are too clerical - more Barbara Wesley.  I shall retain my belief that its residents go for picnics and take hard-boiled eggs and cold chicken to be laid out on a red checked tablecloth in the meadow by the river. It's not my 'this is the house I have always yearned after,' but pretty nevertheless. 

I went to the library with Husband recently. As I already had a stack of to-read books I went just because ... but ended up bringing three books home with me, including the Virago Book of Food (The Joy of Eating) a collection of essays and snippets all about food. Obviously. There's a description of a picnic supper prepared by Anne (of the Famous Five) in which she even provides a small bowl of salt for dipping the hard-boiled eggs. Our picnics when I was young - always to the beach - always included hard-boiled eggs. And cheese and tomato and sand sandwiches. But no tablecloth.

I am in a food mood as my nose is being assaulted by the smell of raspberry and blackberry jam being lovingly prepared by Husband. Inspired by his first attempt (lovely taste but slightly over-sticky texture) and the abundance of ripe raspberries in the garden he had us gathering blackberries from the tip this morning. I was working on the principle that the very fat juicy ones would get too squished in the bag so I needed to eat those straightaway. Husband is made of stronger stuff he claimed but, surprisingly, our bags weighed roughly the same. 

I've also spent the afternoon baking: rhubarb cake for Zac's and chocolate cake for Hev's birthday. It looks better in this photo than in real life as I've angled it to avoid showing its precarious tilt. The messy decoration on the top is the result of me dropping onto the ganache the white chocolate I was grating. Still I'm sure it will taste fine.
My favourite snippet from the book though is this from Heartburn by Nora Ephron, from a section entitled Potatoes and Love: Some Reflections:

The end
In the end, I always want potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Nothing like mashed potatoes when you're feeling blue. Nothing like getting into bed with a bowl of hot mashed potatoes already loaded with butter, and methodically adding a thin slice of cold butter to every forkful.
(She goes on to say the problem is that mashed potatoes require lots of work.)
... most people do not have nearly enough mashed potatoes in their lives, and when they do, it's almost always at the wrong time.

The annual barbecue

It was raining on Sunday morning. 'Never mind,' I said. 'It will be fine by this afternoon for the Zac's/God's Squad barbecue.'

Then we had the phone call to say Father-in-law had died.

'Shall we cancel the barbecue?' I asked.
'No, Pop wouldn't have wanted that. He wanted life to go on.'

As did the rain. What had started as a cloudy with possible breaks morning had turned into a 'can't see the clouds for the rain' morning. 'It will be fine this afternoon,' I said.

And it was. Warm even when the sun came out - but Ric still needed a cup of tea.

And we ate and we laughed and we all had a jolly good time.

Pop would have enjoyed that.

You wouldn't think to look at it but this box is evil

Each time I walked past it, the chocolates whispered, 'Eat me, eat me.' What could I do except give in?

Which is partly the reason I've put back on 2 of the two and a half pounds I lost over the last three weeks. Meaning I've failed miserably to reach my target of losing 4lbs by today. I also blame Father-in-law.

Before we set off for Devon last Wednesday Daughter phoned to say that Younger Son and Fiancée were joining us for dinner so could we pick up something to eat on our way. Thus it was that we were in Tesco's when Husband had the call from his sister to say that the doctor had given Father-in-law just days to live.

There's something about imminent death that makes my belly devour my brain along with the words, 'Oh stuff it, life's too short to worry about a few pounds.' And so began my speedy downfall. That evening my belly belched contentedly as it munched on logic, self control and simple sense - and pasta with feta and spinach, garlic bread and sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream.

And having gone so totally to town any resolve remaining gave up the fight and said, 'Eat, eat, food will make everything all right.'

But today is a new day and I WILL be sensible.