Hungry Ghost's Daily Diet (TM)

Heavens. Has it really be Tuesday since I posted? Oh my. I'm being derelict in my duties here.

The quick version

• Tues: No work, recovery run that wasn't
  
• Wed: Work, no run, no swim, no male totty, but dined with the usual suspects
  
• Thurs: Work, work, work, scratch up million dollar machine
  
• Fri: Flu shot, work a little bit, superstition run, movie, borchst and cabbage rollls
  
• Sat: Sleep, clean, groceries, din-din at JB's
  
• Today: Race and suffer the indignities of old age
  

The Gossipy version
Have been quite forgetful lately. Too much going on in my little addled head. So most of what follows is made up of libel slander an as accurate as possible reconstruction of actual, factual events.

Tuesday was a statutory holiday, Remembrance Day, and there was a flurry of phone calls.

"Recovery run?" I asked, "Recovery?! What are you implying? Are you being cheeky?! Well, if you need to recover - I suppose - but only with FARTLEKS!, MB snapped. And there we were running through the mist, dodging the raindrops with each of us calling out two fartleks. Some recovery run - it's a truism that MB cannot see someone in front of him without having to pass the person. Even if it's a tiny old lady barely moving along, walking her wee doggie. Then to Capers for a muffin and coffee, before heading home to rest up for the rest of the week.

Wednesday, I crawled to work and was met with two e-mails. You see, a few days ago, I had lunch with PJ, ML and DWE and mentioned that I was thinking of putting a table PJ had dumped on given to me a few years back.

"It's too high, not v. comfortable when eating", I said

"You're going to do what with it?!", PJ said in an unaturally high and trembly voice, his lambent eyes, misting over, when he heard I was going to move it out onto the deck, exposed to the elements.

"Finalmente!", ML was heard to mutter under his breath after I passed PJ a napkin to dab at his eyes. Crocodile tears, I'm sure.

So with that little exchange as background, I return to the two e-mails I received from ML. The first didn't say anything, but had a description of a table that ML thought would do very well in replacing PJ's (more tears).

"wing table - W 31" L 59", H 29". Folded W 31" L 12"

This modern drop-leaf table, can seat six people or be folded down to 1 foot for more space and suddenly, you have a useful sideboard. Stockholm."

The second mesage was more descriptive, although its meaning was more ambiguous; in the message, ML had written, "I saw this and thought of you again.... ;o)", with the message he had attached the image to the right. Did ML mean that he saw the picture, and thought of me because Mr. Craig looks like me? Or did he think about me because I look like Mr. Craig?

Oh my. Of course, when MB saw the picture, he had to find the fly in the ointment, nay, not just find, but fish the poor bedraggled fly out and wave it in front of my eyes. "Not as nice as Mr. Bale is he?! And why is he grabbing himself? So weird!", he also had much more to say about the latest Bond movie, but that shall be dealt with later, when there's a bus passing by.

Later that evening at dinner with the usual suspects, I thanked ML for taking the time and trouble to find, and then send me a picture of the table, but before I could finish, DWE looked over with his flashing blue eyes, laid a hand heavy with reproval on my slight, fragle shoulders and said cuttingly with a thick slathering of sacarasm, overlaid with the biggest hint that has ever befallen me,

"Why bother with getting dining tables that seat more than one, it's not as if you ever invite charming, witty, intelligent guests with lovely, hair shot with two highlights (copper and bronze), and wine and dine them with fabulous made-from-scratch, exotic meals anymore"

Oh. Fine. December. If you're around. Maybe. We'll see. But don't hold your breath. Then again, maybe you should.

For the record, dinner was at the Twisted Fork on Granville, a new French bistro. Quite lovely and relaxed. I had a cauliflower soup with cheddar and green apple followed by a Grueyere and onion tart, topped off with a lemon curd desert to bolster my levels of acidity.

Thursday dawned bright and sunny, if a bit windy. But unfortunately, I was stuck in the basement again working with the million dollar machine that goes "eeeughhh" when the grantry returns to home base. Gazelle was away, and I rather dread what will happen when he returns because I put a teeeny leetle, barely noticeable unless you're obsessive compulsive big gouges scratch on the motion platform.

But what could I do? The damn thing jammed and I had to get it moving again. GWS was there with a mask over her shark snout because she was sick again, but that still didn't stop her from hounding me and nudging me towards the scalpels, tweezers, scissors and other sharp implements to try and separate the bed from the platform. That's when the scratch occured - that's it! I shall blame GWS! Yes! The scratch occured under duress! Gazelle and GWS can duke it out.

We finally got the platform moving again, but not without the help of a little duct tape. So useful. Then while waiting for the various scans to finish, GWS regaled me with stories about her when she was a sharklet. Quite sweet really, seeing GWS as a sharklet tormenting various members of her family then swimming quickly out of reach behind a handy coral reef.





Managed to get lunch again with ML, PJ and DWE in the sun - a quick one - although that didn't stop DWE and PJ from indulging in some froth. And all because ML ordered the Salmon burger, which took a while to prepare. "Well! Your salmon burger is late - we shall have to entertain ourselves in the meantime!", he announced, then in response to a gracefully raised eyebrow, he answered ML quickly "It's late because wild salmon is rare now! They are difficult to find, and so the chef has to search through the freezer for a long time before cooking it!", and he continued 1) without taking a breath, and 2)to forestall questions from PJ and me about the rationale behind his statement, "PJ! A pint? Shall we share a pint?!", and in one fluid movement, befitting a triathlete in a wetsuit panther who sights prey, he rose and headed towards the bartender with one final verbal dart towards PJ, "I suppose you must have the Sun God!". PJ promptly, and very Englishly, said supplicatingly, but most pointedly, "No, it doesn't have to be the Sun God...but that would be very nice!", whereupon the salmon burger which had precipitated this entire exchange arrived and ended the conversation.

Friday came far too early given that I didn't get home from scratching Gazelle's baby, the million dollar machine, and from listening to sharklet stories until almost 8pm. However, I had a plan to mitigate against (this specially for PJ) the late hours worked the day before. A quick phone call to MB with a mumbled "Superstition run to shake the soreness out of the joints and get us ready for the race on Sunday!" made him perk up, for he's never really happy unless he's raising his endorphins, or working out some obscure muscle in his Christian Bale-like body, when he was playing the role of The Machinist, that is.

So we ran for thirty minutes and passed S with a gentleman of a certain age gazing at buildings. Then onwards to Tinseltown to see "Rachel Getting Married", which despite all the reviews left both of us underwhelmed. Yes, yes, yes, it was a change of role for Anne Hathaway and all that, and she plays pouty, tormented gult-ridden, smoking addict quite well, but the situation seemed a little bit contrived. Didn't help either that I was hungry and becoming nauseous with the shaky hand-held camera angles. Oooh. Wait, perhaps it was to emulate the DTs when an addict goes through withdrawal? Well, if that was the intention, it was a buh-loody stupid move.

Anne finally went back to rehab, from which she should probably never have emerged, and we left with one thought in mind. Food. For the body if not the soul. MB had a brainwave (it does happen sometimes), and steered us towards the Ukranian Village Restaurant, where I promptly made a bad impression by ordering the Russian Borscht (or was it Georgia Russia invaded? Why, I sound like what's her name Palin now don't I?) before we split some cabbage rolls. Delicious, and exactly what was required to warm our starving stomachs. Never again will I run and go see a movie about addicts with shaky hand held filming. Ever.

And on that note, this installment shall stop. Next up. The tragedy that was Sunday's Fall Classic!