Any Given Sunday

Oh, the Lord's Day - well, not quite.  Father and me went to our local church this morning and sat through the interminably boring service.  The Vicar, Reverend Samuels is a very waffly man and his sermon concerning the recent events relating to the Houses of Multiple Occupation (HMOs) was all very well, but as Father whispered, if he was so concerned with the welfare of the needy then he should open up his spare room for free instead of charging £45 per night for a single bed and continental breakfast.

After the lukewarm coffee and soggy biscuits had been served we slipped away as discretely as we possibly could and I placed the Goblin Meat pudding I'd purchased in Poundland yesterday into the oven.  Yes, I am more than aware that it's one of the hottest days of the year so far, but Father likes something warm inside him at lunchtime(!)  I have cut and pasted a picture of one below just in case you're not aware of this particular culinary delight.



For dessert we had a Butterscotch Angel Delight, yum yum.  Isn't my life exciting?

A Sunday Picnic

This afternoon we ventured out on a Sunday picnic to the 'countryside'.  Unfortunately, it was rather too near the local sewage farm for my liking.  By 'we' I mean, me, Mrs Smythe and Bill Wilkins, our chauffeur for the day.  Bill's a lovely guy and volunteers as part of his probation.  Apparently he was given a Community Service Order as a result of breaking into a zoo, dressed in only his pyjamas one night and trying to cuddle up with the llamas; he has not been deemed a danger to humankind since though, which is a relief.

Mrs Smythe prepared a large plastic box full of squashed sandwiches, two chicken legs and a box of sliced gherkins as her contribution to the feast.  As for me, well, I opted for an M&S Quiche Lorraine and a box of Mr Kipling Angel Slices and a six pack of Shandy Bass.  Bill Wilkins opted for an (already opened) box of Ritz Crackers, some squeezed Primula Cheese and a tub of Utterly Butterly, which he later consumed with the aid of a dessert spoon.

I won't lie: it was a bloody awful experience.  Firstly, we were followed by an ant colony everywhere we went and secondly, the company was dire.  Mrs Smythe kept on going on about how painful her corns were and Bill Wilkins started to regale us with a story of how he and his late wife went on a Waterloo Battlefield Tour back in 2002.  I was bored to death.

Luckily, we departed early due to the weather and the fact that the ants had called in reinforcements in the guise of a hoard of ladybirds.

(The) Caring Companion

Readers: I have a new job - I am, what is now deemed a 'caring companion'.  I'll explain what that is, in layman's terms - basically I have to undertake the care of one particular person; it's a private position and quite well paid for that particular field of work.  I obtained the position, rather strangely, via one of Mother's old contacts, Mrs Diller, who recommended me to her sister-in-law, Mrs Smythe, who, until rheumatoid arthritis, held a seat on the borough council.

Mrs Laura Smythe's a strange woman in so many ways; she lives in a large detached Victorian property in a room off of the High Street, which is crammed full of antique furniture.  She has one son, but he lives in Luton and refused to speak to his mother after she suggested that his wife-to-be was far too hasty to 'drop her drawers' prior to marriage (I really hate that particular phrase!)  Mrs Smythe is a very mean woman and doesn't heat the house properly in winter, but conversely, dotes on her dachshund, Derek.

It's currently a live-out position and I've only been there for the last week or so. Time will tell whether this is the right job for me?