Nov. 14th, 2007

chaletian: (cake)
So, the post-match analysis of yesterday's culinary efforts:

1. Chocolate Chip Cookies

Now, mostly these are a breeze. My trouble comes with sugar. The recipe calls for soft light sugar. I do not keep in stock soft brown sugar (some of you may recall me having this issue a while ago). I have in the past compromised by using half demerara and half soft dark sugar, which works well. Last night I forgot about this, and just used soft dark sugar, which I feel was a mistake. It's a very clumpy sugar and I clearly didn't cream it as well as I should have done because there ended up being lumps of sugar in the cookies. A little too sweet. I mun return, I think, to my half and half method.

2. Shepherd's Pie

The shep. p. itself was fine, obviously (it's hard to go wrong here, though I did have to make an emergency onion call to Katie on her way home). What is notable, I think, is that I managed to make, serve and eat the shep. p. all whilst on the phone, which, as those of you au fait with my complete inability to multitask will appreciate, was pretty damn impressive. I feel there may be hope for me after all.

3. Tiramisu

Ha ha! See what I did there? Actually, I merely just took the plastic containers of tiramisu out of the fridge, but for a moment you actually thought I made it!! Ha! *coughs* OK, yes, let's move on... As a matter of fact, I would quite like to have a stab at tiramisu, just to see if I could do it. The lady who owned the place in Italy we used to go to used to make the fabbest tiramisu, so much nicer than shop stuff.


Anyway, moving on from the culinary. I have an appraisal on Friday (Priscilla told us yesterday - always nice to have lots of notice - though, actually, it's probably as well I didn't know any sooner as I would simply have stressed for longer). I fear appraisals, because there seems to be a sharp divide (some may call it a schism, and I wouldn't disagree) between how I see my job performance and how others seem to see it. I think I am fairly shit at my job, apart from the parts where I think I'm quite good. Other people seem to think I'm quite good at it. But I know my version of events is the right one, because I'm the one doing the job. And it's that horrible waiting for realisation to dawn on everyone else that I'm a bit shit, and wondering if this will be the one when I get called on it. And even Richard telling me yesterday afternoon that what I do is really valuable does not assuage the fear. And I know that really the best thing to do would be to make sure I did my job immaculately, but it never seems to work out that way. Still, we'll see what happens. I'm being a bit genius at the moment, which is probably as well.


Katie was hilarious last night. I am, essentially, mocking her pain, and I realise that and am OK with it. She was very cold (we actually had the heating on in the end), and attempting to wander round in her quilt, which kept ending very, very badly, and with me laughing at her. Plus we watched a thing of Michael Rosenbaum on that MTV Cribs thing, which was extremely funny. Ah, how we laughed.


ETA: Also, I am reading a ridiculously frivolous book at the moment, called Bergdorf Blondes, and enjoying it immensely. I'm not really one for chicklit, but the occasional dip doesn't go amiss.
chaletian: (pgw bertie ponders)
I really want to give a dinner party. We can seat six round our table. We only have four chairs, but two people could sit on stools. Hmm.

Hmmmm.

Nov. 14th, 2007 10:13 am
chaletian: (buzzcocks reading chantelle)
Ee, I can tell it's going to be a long day when it's barely ten o'clock and I'm already spamming LJ.

Russell Brand is a funny (funny-peculiar, as well as funny-ha-ha) cove. He's written an autobiography, which is due out soon, and they're serialising bits in the Guardian (here, here and here). He's the most ridiculous extrovert, and such a show-off, not just generally, but how he writes. His subject matter is rarely what I would consider reading about. But I find myself fascinated, and, though he's a show-off, I find myself responding to it, because I am the same way a bit: full of superficial knowledge, strung together by virtue of being fairly clever. This made me laugh: "George Orwell, in Homage to Catalonia, wrote (on the first page, thank God, otherwise I wouldn't know about it) of the immediate recognition of shared humanity." Heh. I shall be buying his book, because I just love the way he writes.
chaletian: (Default)
I have just realised there is a giant plastic hip teetering on my top shelf. I wonder how long that's been there?
chaletian: (englebert)
Was browsing usual clothes shops online in idle search for suspender belt (how is it even possible that M&S no longer stock a single one, despite selling stockings still?) as I am shortly going to be forced into tights-wearing behaviour, and I prefer stockings but cannot find my suspender belt, when I found a really, really nice evening dress. A dress, moreover, that is a snip at £60, not to mention 20% off today.

1. I would look shit in it, because I always look shit in dresses, because I am, much as I like to ignore the fact as much as possible, really very fat.

2. I cannot afford it. Any convoluted way I cooked up in my head to pay for it would only end in Financial Disaster.

3. I am afraid I might end up getting it anyway.

4. Am hoping posting about it will stop me doing anything stupid.

5. Woez.
chaletian: (bard five wits)
I just updated my profile page in the manner of a teenage girl. I mean, actually, without even a hint of parody. Shame, shame on me. Must remind myself am 27, not 15.
chaletian: (p+p emo darcy)
I fear my #1 lip salve is reaching the end of its useful life. Lip salve #1, for those of you not in the lip salve know, is my Lypsyl mint one, with the wrapper torn off so it's just a friendly little green tube with a blue bottom. It's a good lip salve, and by far my favourite. Lip salves #2 and #3 (both Boots strawberry, in different degrees of used-up-ness) are OK as these things go, but by far inferior. Also, #2 (or #3) is in my weekend bag, but #3 (or #2) has vanished. But possibly not actually vanished, because I thought #1 had done a bunk, only to find it in the very first place I looked.

To conclude: possibly the time for #4 has come. I do not say these words lightly. This will be an undertaking which will tax me strongly, body and soul. But when duty calls, it will not find me lacking. I will face up to the challenge, and I will do my part. The hunt for #4 is on.
chaletian: (p+p lizzy murder)
Am desperately bored. Do people think the time for another SDC has come?
chaletian: (dls lord peter)
So, for November's Squeenie Drabble Challenge, prompts please! Pick a fandom and three words, and I will write a little fic.
chaletian: (iron mittens)
Pushing Daisies, knitting, clingfilm (or US equiv), cheese
::as requested by [livejournal.com profile] katie__pillar::

At the age of twelve years, two months and seventeen days, Olive Snook had developed a passion for knitting. Her second-cousin-twice-removed, a former Olympic high-jumper, whose career had come to an end after a she was tragically embroiled in a grand cheese heist involving three dairymen and a retired safecracker from Connecticut, had taught her the simple pleasure of the knit and perl, and Olive, at times of stress, fell back upon the habit, little knowing she shared her hobby with private detective Emerson Cod. Following the mysterious arrival of Chuck into the Pieman’s life, Olive had knitted a clock-warmer, three socks and a blanket, lovingly crafted to match the rest of her bedroom. On this day, having finished a eyepatch of cerulean blue angora for Chuck’s Aunt Lily (of whom she was secretly very fond), Olive was resolved, once again, to make her feelings plain.

But Chuck and the Pieman were in the kitchen, kissing through plastic wrap.

Olive Snook poured coffee and thought about her next project.





I don't think Pushing Daisies fic is really for me...
chaletian: (supernatural dean girl)
Supernatural, Bobby, demon, yellow-eyed
::as requested by [livejournal.com profile] helenmia::

Robert Lewis Singer peered around a little warily. His momma had told him to go visit Mrs Flaherty and give her a pie. “Bobby,” she had said, “Mrs Flaherty is right lonely now her husband’s gone, and I reckon a pie would be just the thing to brighten her up.” Trouble was, Robert Lewis Singer thought, trudging through the wood to Mrs Flaherty’s house, that his momma was kinda sweet an’ all, and didn’t see that Mrs Flaherty was a wicked old woman, who prob’ly ate kids like him. Sure, grown-ups pretended stuff like that just happened in books, and it weren’t real or nothing, but Robert Lewis Singer was not convinced. Mrs Flaherty, he thought, was prob’ly a demon or something, that’s what she was. An old-woman-shaped demon, who was just sittin’ around waitin’ for some fool boy to come bringin’ pies. Didn’t his momma realise that? Didn’t she know what she was lettin’ him in for? Robert Lewis Singer shook his head sorrowfully. A right sorry state it was when your own mother couldn’t tell that sorta thing.

Mrs Flaherty’s house, shabby and dilapidated, stood in a small clearing. Bobby eyed it dubiously. Yep, ate little kids and buried the bones. A movement in the dark undergrowth caught his attention, and he started, scared. There was a rustle, and then a cat appeared. It was a black cat, slick, smooth, yellow-eyed. Robert Lewis Singer and the cat stared at each other for a moment, and then the cat slunk towards the house, and Bobby rubbed his nose nervously. Well, now, that changed things. A cat like that meant only one thing, to Robert Lewis Singer’s way of thinking. Mrs Flaherty was a witch. A gen-u-ine witch. He looked at the pie dish in his hand, and looked at the front door of Mrs Flaherty’s house, which seemed to be coming closer and closer.

Robert Lewis Singer ran forward, dropped the pie dish on the porch, and ran back through the woods. He sure hoped his momma didn’t want that dish back, cuz he was darned if he was goin’ back for it. That, Mrs Flaherty, she was a witch all right.

. . .

“That Singer boy,” said Mrs Flaherty, running an arthritic finger around the faded floral dish Mrs Singer had sent, “he sees far too much.”

The cat said nothing, but there was a yellow-eyed flash as it blinked.
chaletian: (ncis ziva bang bang)
NCIS, desk, stapler, datestamp
::as requested by [livejournal.com profile] pim2005::

“That’s not how it happened, Tony,” said McGee patiently. He picked up the stapler, and moved it three inches to the left. “Fitzgerald was here.”

“Are you blind, Elf Lord?” demanded Tony, outraged, moving the stapler back to its original position on the desk. “Fitzgerald was here.” He plucked McGee’s cellphone from his jacket pocket, ignoring the younger agent’s indignant response, and placed it carefully in between the NCIS coffee mug and McGee’s keyboard. “Houghton was here.”

“You are both wrong,” said Ziva dispassionately, leaning over McGee’s computer monitor to assess the display more closely. “Fitzgerald was next to the keyboard.” She moved the stapler accordingly, pushing the cellphone out of the way.

Tony scoffed. “Puh-leeze! Like you could see anything the way you were all over Richardson!”

“I was not draped over anyone!” replied Ziva heatedly.

McGee coughed apologetically. “You… kind of were, Ziva,” he said. Ziva glared at him, and he looked down, suddenly fascinated by the weave in his jacket cuff.

Tony merely crowed. “See, Zee-vah, even the McGoogle kid here noticed. You and Richardson were practically pornographic!”

Ziva smiled suddenly, and leaned towards Tony. “Well, you would know, yes?”

Tony grinned, tilting his head to one side and raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I’m just saying that…” He broke off and straightened his tie. Ziva, recognising the signs that Gibbs had just appeared somewhere, turned until she was leaning against the desk, cool and professional. Gibbs paid no attention, but went straight to his desk, and retrieved badge and gun from the top drawer.

“Dead marine down at the docks,” he said briefly. He stopped by the desk, looked down at the disarray of stapler, mug, cellphone, three pencils, an eraser, a string of paperclips, and half a stale doughnut which, for some reason, had been sitting in Tony’s bottom drawer.

“You forgot Meadows,” he said, grabbed McGee’s carefully guarded datestamp (it was the stationery item most frequently stolen by Tony who, to McGee’s dismay rarely kept the correct date on it), and banging it down in the middle of the desk. He walked away. The three of them stared down at the datestamp, then were galvanized into action as Gibbs shout of “Now!” echoed back to them.

McGee took an extra moment to mourn over his desk. Kept immaculate and tidy, it now resembled a Staples war zone, and he rather suspected the datastamp ink wouldn’t come off. He sighed. No-one realised how hard it was working at NCIS.
chaletian: (tww josh bad day)
The West Wing, tea tray, 5-and-a-half inch floppy disk, towel
::as requested by [livejournal.com profile] bookwormsarah::

“You joined a gym?”

“Yeah.”

“An actual gym?”

“Donna…”

“I mean, with the machines, and the working out, and the… you joined a gym?”

Josh Lyman’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his assistant. “Donna, I joined a gym. It’s no big deal.” He stood in the doorway of his office, gripping the towel swathed round his neck. It felt pretty good actually. Manly. He was manly. Joshua Lyman, male animal. Donna crinkled her nose.

“Is this because of what Toby said?”

“No!” yelped Josh, deeply insulted at the idea. “This has nothing to do what… y’know, I don’t even remember what it was… that thing… that was whatever it was Toby said. I don’t remember.”

“He said you were like a girl,” supplied Donna helpfully.

“I don’t really need to…”

“A girly little girl, giving girly tea parties on a girly tea tray to her girly dolls.”

“It’s not because of what Toby said!” Donna looked at him disapprovingly.

“You don’t need to shout, Josh.”

“You know what, Donna, yes I do. I sometimes need to shout, because I am a man, and men must shout. We are shouters.”

“You’re full of crap.”

Josh pulled himself up to his full height, held the towel more firmly, and gazed imperiously at his assistant.

“Donna, I am going to the gym. I am going to work-out, because I have decided, entirely of my own will, that I want to. When I come back, I want that… that… that five and a half inch floppy disk on my desk.”

“What disk?”

Josh frowned. Why must he be subject to such ridiculous questions? “That disk. The floppy disk. The five and a half inch floppy disk.”

Donna looked at him skeptically. He shifted, feeling a little uncomfortable. Damn her. “Josh, do you even know what a floppy disk does?”

Shit. She had him there. Never mind. Joshua Lyman, male animal. Political mastermind. You can cope with Donna. “It’s a disk. It’s a computer thing. I want it on my desk!” He stalked out, towel still round his neck.

“You’re an idiot!” he heard Donna shout out after him.

“You’re fired!” he yelled back, grinning, safe in the knowledge that she – and the five and a half inch floppy disk, whatever the hell one of those was – would be there on his triumphant return.
chaletian: (Default)
I think it's going to be leftovers for tea tonight. What say you, Katie?

Am still bored, despite sdc-ing.

We have nothing for pudding. Woe.

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