Monday, 1 February 2010
My housemate is a carrot
I am sorry to have to announce that a curious change has come over one Megan Frances Abigail. We spent a glorious weekend together in the cold and snow of Shropshire, with our other housemate Jayne Stinkypants. The food was wonderful (and if you've never seen anyone eat an entire bowl of sour cream by itself, it is pretty entertaining), the Bibley-talkey bits were excellent and we slept in a beautifully freezing cardboard house. At least I did. And we all know that you can't beat frostbite for making a weekend memorable.
So you can imagine my consternation when, upon our return, we retire to bed quite as we should be, and wake up quite as we shouldn't be. At least in Megan's case. I'm not sure what the medical term is for turning into a carrot in your sleep, but I reckon it's pretty serious.
What's worse is that now Jayne and I have the dilemma of what to do with her. It seems very heartless to eat one of your best friends, but similarly wasteful not to. And if we leave her too long she'll osmose and get all old and soggy. And if we put her in the back of a wardrobe somewhere in Cambridge I reckon she'll go runny at some point.
Feel free to contact me with any suggestions/recipe ideas as we mourn the sad loss of our friend.
In other news, there was snow. SNOW. In England. ENGLAND. What is the world coming to? And it wasn't piddly, fiddly little teeny-weeny-eeny-smeeny amounts of snow, it was great gadzooking monster amounts of snow. At least for England. Especially that fine suburban hub of Alton-en-le-wey. Apparently.
And what do all sensible English people do when it snows? They go 'boggan in their wellinga boots. Of course. Or tobogganing in their wellington boots if they have a little more self-respect. Preferably wearing the most absurd clothing they can find. In my case a full waterproof outfit belonging to my father. You can't beat flourescent orange trousers. Ever. Especially when the waistband stops just two inches below your armpits. Spectacular.
I decided to go 'boggan, but my adventures were somewhat more spectacular than most people's. I like to believe that this is because I have more imagination, but probably it is because I wear bigger knickers. We managed to develop a new and improved sledding technique, which involved three overgrown children (substitute adults where appropriate), lying one on top of the other on top of the other on top of the toboggan. And then taking the hill head-first alongside all of the other, less-adventurous inhabitants of Guildford.
This is not, however, the peak of the excitement! Which came when two girls, probably aged about 9 and 12, come bombing down the hill on their marvellously speedy-weedy 'boggan with metal runners. They see a group of people at the bottom of the hill and decide not to stop, not to change direction, not even to call out, just to keep going and see what happens. If you have never had a sledge go over your leg at full-speed, it is pretty surprising. Not the most comfortable moment of my life, but possibly worth it for the spectacular bruises and hard lump that is still in my leg.
Chuck the Pig is in fine form, as is Rachel, and three cheers for Merrie England.