Joints

Mine, and those of a chicken.

Today we went shopping (noting that there were long queues at the petrol station at the supermarket, not a good sign), and bought a chicken. Not just a chicken, other stuff too, I mean. But the chicken is the star of today's show.

We got home, Mr WithaY carefully placed rat poison in the garden to hopefully see off the latest incursion of vermin, refilled the bird feeders to encourage a better class of wildlife, and then went into the garage to do terrible things.

While he was in there, I looked at the chicken and thought I'd tandoorify it. And then I thought, ahahahahaaaaaaa*, if I cut it up, it will fit better in the bowl to soak in the tandoori mixture. So I took it apart.

Properly.

All nicely jointed and sectioned, with the legs and wings in the marinade and a few lovely fillets in the fridge for another day. Then I boiled up the carcase for stock with celery, onion, bay leaves and pepper. And once that was all boiled up, I picked off all the nicely poached bits of meat from the carcase and put them in another bowl to use in soup.

It was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. But with no moral at the end. And fewer horses.

We went for a stroll this afternoon to return some loppers to a neighbour, who very kindly invited us in for a cup of tea. Then we sauntered through the village, scaled a fence** and went for a walk along the river, watching various ducks, swans, coots and a buzzard all going about their business. We found a trail of eggs, probably pheasant, all broken and emptied out, stolen from a nest by (I bet) a rat.

They really are bastards.

And then it was time to go and have a cream tea. They have a kind of open house thing every few weeks in the summer to raise money for charity. All very pleasant apart from the overwhelming stench of cowshit as we sat outside enjoying our scones and cream.


*I really did think that.

**A small one.

Rubbish II

The plot thickens.

Ok, so we are getting used to not having a bin by the desk.

We are getting used to having to remember not to fling stuff onto the floor in the approximate area of where the bin used to be.

We are even (well, most of us) remembering not to empty the hole punch thingy over the bin that isn't there any more.

What has developed is an unforeseen obsessiveness about What Is Being Put In The Plastic Box In The Kitchen.

Let me explain. Several members of staff arrive very early* in the morning, and of course one of the first things they do is make a pot of tea. It was like an Agatha Christie story, as it was explained to me:

0715 Tea was prepared in kitchen. Plastic rubbish box empty and clean.

0715 - 0730 Tea was enjoyed by early arrivals. Plastic box in kitchen mostly empty, apart from a few used tea bags.

0745 Second pot of tea suggested (they were very thirsty apparently)

0747 Teapot taken to kitchen to be emptied out, washed and refilled with fresh brew. Plastic box now contains complete, cold, picked-clean chicken carcase.

0750 Tea enjoyed by early arrivals, but not quite as much as the first pot, as spectre of mental Henry VIII stylee entire-chicken-for-breakfast colleague now haunts them all.

Someone, somehow, in the 15-ish minutes between making two pots of tea dumped a chicken carcase in the box in the kitchen.

How? And more importantly, why? Did they bring it to work with them? Had it been in their desk all night? Did they find it in the car on the way to work and think "Bollocks, meant to boil that up for soup."

And they say office life is dull.

Other news: Went to the pub for supper** where I remmbered how much I like cider. Mmmmm cider.

We played spoof. Listening to the rules of spoof being explained to someone who was patently unable to follow them was interesting.

Remember that scene in Monty Python and The Holy Grail with the guards in the tower on the Prince's wedding day? "We're coming with you!"

It was a bit like that.

Spencer knows.




*like 7am....far too bloody early.

**Chicken curry, thanks for asking.