weekender
Last night’s dinner at Dish-Dash in Balham was stomach-splittingly filling. Every single one of us (and there were about 16 to 20 of us, depending on the time of the evening) had to get up and do a little stroll around the place, down to the washrooms and up again.
Middle-eastern food that wasn’t bad at all, but not exactly very exciting. I wish someone would come up with unpretentious good ethnic food, and cut out all that ‘ooh look it’s exotic, so we have to dim the lights and serve everything on tiny plates and have silly camel things (candleholders? Napkin ring? What?) all around!’
I miss the hawker centre and kopitiam.
But, it was a good night. And T ended up with 5 pots of plants for her birthday presents – everyone obviously knows about her and that green stuff. We gave her a rather well established spider plant with its own baby plant dangling off the side of the pot. I had to take apart one of the hanging baskets just to extract that specimen because their root structure is absolutely mad and is impossible to separate without being really vicious and just tearing the whole mass of roots apart.
Other the highlights of the night included:
- talking about gardening at 2am while drunk on too much red wine
- doing arm-bendy exercises and trying to outdo each other on the most intricate arm-hand-shoulder-twist
- watching R try to lean against the wall several times before giving up and walk back to sit in his chair
- from the upper-deck of the bus home, making up stories about the people we saw below us on the pavements and street corners
- watching a woman in white bridal dress with a big cleaver stuck in her stomach and (fake)blood streaming down
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the hallway into the house, i.e. right outside my bedroom door, smells like gas. Apparently. So if it really is gas, I’ll be roast suckling pig even before I register the explosion.
O, R and I have spent more than several minutes sniffing around the house looking for the source. Or maybe it isn’t gas. Oh I don’t know. I never know about these things.
And so came the inevitable, after we didn’t know where the gas-smell was coming from
It’s really not so surprising, when you think of it, that he wants to move away and not have to deal with 6 other people haranguing him whenever something goes wrong in the house. And it’s really not so surprising, that I agree wholeheartedly with him when these situations arise and they think it's fine to hassle him.
Maybe i'm just being over-protective. But still, 5 years of cleaning up other people's mess is more than anyone should have to deal with, much less having to deal with the (i quote) bigoted, rascist bitch who is the landlady.
Yeah, so change is afoot. Hurrah! (especially if i'm not burnt to death in my sleep before then)
Middle-eastern food that wasn’t bad at all, but not exactly very exciting. I wish someone would come up with unpretentious good ethnic food, and cut out all that ‘ooh look it’s exotic, so we have to dim the lights and serve everything on tiny plates and have silly camel things (candleholders? Napkin ring? What?) all around!’
I miss the hawker centre and kopitiam.
But, it was a good night. And T ended up with 5 pots of plants for her birthday presents – everyone obviously knows about her and that green stuff. We gave her a rather well established spider plant with its own baby plant dangling off the side of the pot. I had to take apart one of the hanging baskets just to extract that specimen because their root structure is absolutely mad and is impossible to separate without being really vicious and just tearing the whole mass of roots apart.
Other the highlights of the night included:
- talking about gardening at 2am while drunk on too much red wine
- doing arm-bendy exercises and trying to outdo each other on the most intricate arm-hand-shoulder-twist
- watching R try to lean against the wall several times before giving up and walk back to sit in his chair
- from the upper-deck of the bus home, making up stories about the people we saw below us on the pavements and street corners
- watching a woman in white bridal dress with a big cleaver stuck in her stomach and (fake)blood streaming down
the hallway into the house, i.e. right outside my bedroom door, smells like gas. Apparently. So if it really is gas, I’ll be roast suckling pig even before I register the explosion.
O, R and I have spent more than several minutes sniffing around the house looking for the source. Or maybe it isn’t gas. Oh I don’t know. I never know about these things.
And so came the inevitable, after we didn’t know where the gas-smell was coming from
‘Where’s [the boyfriend]? Is he around?’I tried to feign ignorance! I attempted to shield him from stupid questions! But I failed! Now the boyfriend will get text messages when he's not even in the fucking country asking where the gas pipes in the house are. Brilliant.
‘Uhm... no... he's gone off to berlin… you knew that’
‘Did he bring his mobile with him?’
‘Uhm... What can he do? He’s not coming back till Wednesday’
It’s really not so surprising, when you think of it, that he wants to move away and not have to deal with 6 other people haranguing him whenever something goes wrong in the house. And it’s really not so surprising, that I agree wholeheartedly with him when these situations arise and they think it's fine to hassle him.
Maybe i'm just being over-protective. But still, 5 years of cleaning up other people's mess is more than anyone should have to deal with, much less having to deal with the (i quote) bigoted, rascist bitch who is the landlady.
Yeah, so change is afoot. Hurrah! (especially if i'm not burnt to death in my sleep before then)
posted by ejl at 1:09 am
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Discount Hydro!
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