I never thought I'd say this, but the thing I miss the most about my old office is the toilets. You could guarantee that every morning they would be sparkling clean, the locks worked, there was always toilet roll and there was an actual toilet seat, fully attached on each toilet.
Now I was under the misguided, naive impression that these were fairly standard expectations for a workplace toilet, but apparently I am very fucking wrong. In the five months I have been at my new office I have been immensely dissatisfied with the three toilets at the end of the corridor I work on. If I didn't have a baby pressing on my bladder I would happily walk the three flights of stairs to the clean, hardly touched toilets on the top floor but this is not an option.
So, I send out a plea to women of my workplace. STOP BEING DIRTY BITCHES.
Specifically:
- If your time really is too precious to waste standing at the hand dryer, don't dry your hands with half a roll of toilet paper then put it all in the toilet to block it up. There is a bin, try using that.
- Tampax and Tampax wrappers go in the special bin next to the toilet. Not the floor and not unflushed in the toilet.
- Really basic this one. If you use the toilet, flush it
- However it is that you manage to piss on the seat and floor, wipe it up.
And Mr Caretaker man, I may of mentioned this once or twice, but women like a lock on the door, so please fix cubicle three and they also like a toilet seat that is fully affixed to the toilet, not hanging by a thread. That is cubicle one I am referring to. They have been in the same shit state for five months, please, please, pretty please do something.
Mrs Cleaner lady, I can understand how, upon seeing the state of the bogs on a Monday morning it could make you feel depressed to your very core, but you get a similar plea. Please, please, pretty please clean them.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Tricky days and pretty girls.
Wednesday should of been a piece of piss. I had a 28 week midwife appointment in the morning, then I had to wait in for a gas man in the afternoon. A day off work and everything. The midwife appointment started not so well as it was two new women who I'd never met before one of which although qualified hadn't done any anti natal care for years. After the usual chit chat, blood pressure check, check my pee - which was 'lovely and clear' in case you were wondering I was asked 'have you been getting lots of movement?' to which I replied 'usually yes, but last night and this morning not so much' 'oh well, I'm sure everything's fine, but just pop up on the bed and we'll have a listen' And listen they did. First Mrs Out of Practice had a go, and she did get a heartbeat but every few beats it would miss one so Mrs Proper Midwife had a go and got the same thing. 'I'm sure everything is fine and that he's just moving about a lot (er, did no one hear me when I said I haven't felt him move?) which is why we're not getting a continuous heartbeat, but we'll just arrange a scan to be on the safe side'
I should of known better to expect Wednesday to be so easy. My plan for lounging/snoozing all afternoon was shot. I had to be at the hospital for two o clock and arrange for the boy to be picked up from school in case I wasn't back in time. (Thank you gobby neighbour for stepping in to the breach.) But firstly I had to phone the other half and in my head this is how the conversation went:
'Hi honey, nothing to worry about, just come from the midwife's appointment and everything's fine but they are just a little bit worried because he's not moving so much and when they monitored his heartbeat he skipped a couple of beats.'
Apparently, what I actually said was:
'Hi, I've got to go for a scan at two o clock because he's not moving very much.
'YOU WHAT?'
'Oh, they got a heartbeat, but he kept missing one every now and again, the scan's just to make sure everything's okay.'
'THEY GOT A HEARTBEAT? YOU COULD OF MENTIONED THAT FIRST WOMAN, MY ARSE WAS PROPERLY NIPPING.'
'Did I not mention it first? I'm sure I said there was nothing to worry about.'
'NO. NO YOU DIDN'T. YOU ARE TERRIBLE AT GIVING IMPORTANT NEWS*'
*tiny voice* 'Sorry.'
I get off the phone feeling awful for being shit at giving any kind of news and worried because I still haven't felt a good wiggle from bump. And in a crisis you turn to your friends right? Off I waddle to my good friends at the local beauty salon.
Now I don't know about you, but when I was at school girls were divided into very definite cliques. at the top of the popularity pile were the pretty girls. You know the ones I mean, they always had the most fashionable take on a uniform, super short skirts, blouses indecently unbuttoned and ties with a fat knot and worn loose. They were always caked in make up and were good at sports. They walked around with their poodle perms and their pulled up socks like they owned the school. I was not one of those girls. I was the girl in braces, glasses and Doc Martins with band names scrawled across my exercise books getting bullied by those girls. This has left me with a very tainted world view of pretty girls which goes along the lines of that they all think far too much of themselves and generally look down at normal folk in much the same way I look at dog shit on the pavement.
Back to the local beauty salon. Sian and Clare who work there have become my very good friends over the course of the last three years. Sian did our wedding photos and a rather fantastic job she did too. She has seen me in some very compromising positions - well how else do you get waxed in your private down below bits - and we've shared nights out and nights in together. Last year when I was going slightly mad working in an office by myself I visited them on a daily basis and they kept me sane. And they are both beautiful. Not just in the conventional pretty girl way but inside and out beautiful. They are not bitches like the girls at school and they are female friends like I've never had before. I went to see them on Wednesday and they were as always fantastic and when I was worrying myself sick about the scan, they reassured me that everything would be fine. We chatted for a long while until I remembered I should be at home waiting for the gas man.
There was no sign of having missed the gas man visit when I got home, I was fully expecting one of their snotty notes through the door 'We tried to call at a pre arranged time for your annual service, but you weren't home. YOU CHEEKY BITCH. HOW DARE YOU NOT BE IN WHEN I CALL AT SOME POINT BETWEEN 12 AND 5**'
I did get to lounge for about ten minutes before the dog reminded me he needed a walk. He does this by pacing up and down then sticking his face in yours and whining so you can smell his hideous stinky fish breath. One waddle around the field later and it was time for the scan. I still hadn't felt any good wiggles from the bump so by now I was properly, properly concerned and with the mantra 'sometimes bad things happen' rolling around in my head like the most fuck awful ear worm ever it was with some trepidation that we set off. The other half had managed to get out of work and as we drove to the hospital he reminded me yet again of my terrible news giving skills. YES, I KNOW. I GET THE MESSAGE, I'M SHIT AT GIVING NEWS. Is what I was thinking, but I just sat clutching my anti natal notes, eyes wide with fear and eventually he realised I was more concerned about the impending scan than my information passing skills.
The fact that I am writing about this a mere four days after the event means you all know that there is a happy ending. The scan was fine, more than fine. Junior is safe and well and just being a bit lazy like his dad. It has left me with an occasional 'sometimes bad things happen' running through my head. But relief is a fantastic sensation.
* I told my other half that I was pregnant whilst cooking tea one night. There was no preamble, no gentle build up, no sitting on the sofa with a stiff drink at the ready. We were stood by the cooker and while I stirred some chilli I said 'I'm pregnant'. This has NEVER been forgiven.
** I made that last bit up.
Oh, we made it back in time for the gas man so no dying of carbon monoxide poisoning for us.
I should of known better to expect Wednesday to be so easy. My plan for lounging/snoozing all afternoon was shot. I had to be at the hospital for two o clock and arrange for the boy to be picked up from school in case I wasn't back in time. (Thank you gobby neighbour for stepping in to the breach.) But firstly I had to phone the other half and in my head this is how the conversation went:
'Hi honey, nothing to worry about, just come from the midwife's appointment and everything's fine but they are just a little bit worried because he's not moving so much and when they monitored his heartbeat he skipped a couple of beats.'
Apparently, what I actually said was:
'Hi, I've got to go for a scan at two o clock because he's not moving very much.
'YOU WHAT?'
'Oh, they got a heartbeat, but he kept missing one every now and again, the scan's just to make sure everything's okay.'
'THEY GOT A HEARTBEAT? YOU COULD OF MENTIONED THAT FIRST WOMAN, MY ARSE WAS PROPERLY NIPPING.'
'Did I not mention it first? I'm sure I said there was nothing to worry about.'
'NO. NO YOU DIDN'T. YOU ARE TERRIBLE AT GIVING IMPORTANT NEWS*'
*tiny voice* 'Sorry.'
I get off the phone feeling awful for being shit at giving any kind of news and worried because I still haven't felt a good wiggle from bump. And in a crisis you turn to your friends right? Off I waddle to my good friends at the local beauty salon.
Now I don't know about you, but when I was at school girls were divided into very definite cliques. at the top of the popularity pile were the pretty girls. You know the ones I mean, they always had the most fashionable take on a uniform, super short skirts, blouses indecently unbuttoned and ties with a fat knot and worn loose. They were always caked in make up and were good at sports. They walked around with their poodle perms and their pulled up socks like they owned the school. I was not one of those girls. I was the girl in braces, glasses and Doc Martins with band names scrawled across my exercise books getting bullied by those girls. This has left me with a very tainted world view of pretty girls which goes along the lines of that they all think far too much of themselves and generally look down at normal folk in much the same way I look at dog shit on the pavement.
Back to the local beauty salon. Sian and Clare who work there have become my very good friends over the course of the last three years. Sian did our wedding photos and a rather fantastic job she did too. She has seen me in some very compromising positions - well how else do you get waxed in your private down below bits - and we've shared nights out and nights in together. Last year when I was going slightly mad working in an office by myself I visited them on a daily basis and they kept me sane. And they are both beautiful. Not just in the conventional pretty girl way but inside and out beautiful. They are not bitches like the girls at school and they are female friends like I've never had before. I went to see them on Wednesday and they were as always fantastic and when I was worrying myself sick about the scan, they reassured me that everything would be fine. We chatted for a long while until I remembered I should be at home waiting for the gas man.
There was no sign of having missed the gas man visit when I got home, I was fully expecting one of their snotty notes through the door 'We tried to call at a pre arranged time for your annual service, but you weren't home. YOU CHEEKY BITCH. HOW DARE YOU NOT BE IN WHEN I CALL AT SOME POINT BETWEEN 12 AND 5**'
I did get to lounge for about ten minutes before the dog reminded me he needed a walk. He does this by pacing up and down then sticking his face in yours and whining so you can smell his hideous stinky fish breath. One waddle around the field later and it was time for the scan. I still hadn't felt any good wiggles from the bump so by now I was properly, properly concerned and with the mantra 'sometimes bad things happen' rolling around in my head like the most fuck awful ear worm ever it was with some trepidation that we set off. The other half had managed to get out of work and as we drove to the hospital he reminded me yet again of my terrible news giving skills. YES, I KNOW. I GET THE MESSAGE, I'M SHIT AT GIVING NEWS. Is what I was thinking, but I just sat clutching my anti natal notes, eyes wide with fear and eventually he realised I was more concerned about the impending scan than my information passing skills.
The fact that I am writing about this a mere four days after the event means you all know that there is a happy ending. The scan was fine, more than fine. Junior is safe and well and just being a bit lazy like his dad. It has left me with an occasional 'sometimes bad things happen' running through my head. But relief is a fantastic sensation.
* I told my other half that I was pregnant whilst cooking tea one night. There was no preamble, no gentle build up, no sitting on the sofa with a stiff drink at the ready. We were stood by the cooker and while I stirred some chilli I said 'I'm pregnant'. This has NEVER been forgiven.
** I made that last bit up.
Oh, we made it back in time for the gas man so no dying of carbon monoxide poisoning for us.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Exercise is bad for you. FACT.
Sometimes all of real life is too much to share in a blog. Money worries coupled with arguments with an ex over the welfare of your son can result in life being a bit too....well, lifey to write about. So I'll stick to the more fun topic of my hips.
Hips are useful joints used in all kinds of fun activities such as walking and sitting. 27 million years ago before bump I was quite the gym bunny. I did all the usual stuff, circuits, spinning, box circuit, oh not step classes though, the dog is more co ordinated than me. But my most favourite thing was running. Not massive distances, between five and ten kilometres, sometimes outside but mainly on a treadmill. Don't get me wrong, I can see how most sane people would find this deathly dull but for me the steady rhythm with loud, loud music in my ears just made me feel good. Then one day about two years ago whilst in the middle of such a run I began thinking hmmm, that is an odd niggly pain in my right hip, I'll just ignore it. Which proved to be quite successful until I increased the speed and found the simple action of putting one leg in front of the other nigh on impossible. Cutting that run short, I let myself rest a week and tried again. Very frustratingly the same thing happened again and this time when I stopped running my right foot seemed to prefer being turned outwards in some type of ballet dancer position and I was only capable of a shuffling hobble. Off to the doctor I limped and I was diagnosed with Trochanteric bursitis. Here's the science bit:
Bursitis is the inflammation of one or more bursae (small sacks) of synovial fluid in the body. When bursitis occurs movement relying on the inflamed bursa becomes difficult and painful. Moreover movement of tendons and muscles over the inflamed bursa aggravates its inflammation, perpetuating the problem. (thank you Wikapedia)
You can get it in other joints, housemaid's knee anyone? and it is caused by repetitive movement and excessive pressure. Doesn't running include repetitive movement? This is not good.
Back to the doctors, I was prescribed some super strong painkillers, and sent off to the physiotherapists. My lovely physio gave me some acupuncture for a few weeks before teaching me exercises to strengthen my core and muscles supporting my hip. Everything is about your core apparently. After a month or so I was good as new and I started exercising again. A few months in and the bursitis started again.
Very boringly this pattern has been on repeat for the past two years with two further referrals to physiotherapy and one MRI scan to 'rule out anything more suspicious' Now that my centre of balance has moved to a new and interesting place, it has caused a flare up that has in turn caused tendonitis in a tendon going into my bum (which does have a fancy Latin name, I've just forgotten it) and terrible back ache. When I first went back to the doctors about this flare up, she patronisingly told me that it was the normal aches and pains of pregnancy. Two days later my leg gave way under me and if I had not been right next to a desk at work that I lent on to take my weight, I would of rather embarrassingly collapsed to the floor. Back to the doctors I went again, to see a different more competent doctor who referred me for yet more physio. BUT this time it was not my lovely physio lady, it was another woman who I'm sure is very good, but giving me a couple of exercises to do on a gym ball is not the way to fix this. I gave it my very best shot but I have to admit, I cancelled my last appointment because the hour out of my working day it took just to see her for just five minutes, and then of her not doing much did make me question whether it was a good use of her and much more importantly, my time.
This left me in an uncomfortable/sore/painful/agonising position. As pregnancy has gone on the back ache and hip pain has got to the point where it makes me cry or withdraw in to myself because the pain seems to fill my head so much I'm incapable of talking. Or hilariously leave me unable to stand up off the toilet. I had to shout for the other half to help me. I know we're married but who expects to have to help their thirty five year old wife to pull her knickers up when she's totally sober? So the other half took matters into his own hands and got the details of a woman who does remedial massage and uses something called the Johnstones technique* and forced me to make an appointment. I'll be honest, I was unwilling because of the cost but two appointments in and I'm impressed. My back pain is much better, the hip not so much, but I am optimistic that it is only a matter of time before this improves as well. The massage lady says that at some point I will have to learn to walk again because I'm doing it all wrong. Maybe by the time the as yet unborn baby takes his first faltering steps, I'll have mastered it.
*I have no clue what this is other than it involves rocking movements in with the massage.
Hips are useful joints used in all kinds of fun activities such as walking and sitting. 27 million years ago before bump I was quite the gym bunny. I did all the usual stuff, circuits, spinning, box circuit, oh not step classes though, the dog is more co ordinated than me. But my most favourite thing was running. Not massive distances, between five and ten kilometres, sometimes outside but mainly on a treadmill. Don't get me wrong, I can see how most sane people would find this deathly dull but for me the steady rhythm with loud, loud music in my ears just made me feel good. Then one day about two years ago whilst in the middle of such a run I began thinking hmmm, that is an odd niggly pain in my right hip, I'll just ignore it. Which proved to be quite successful until I increased the speed and found the simple action of putting one leg in front of the other nigh on impossible. Cutting that run short, I let myself rest a week and tried again. Very frustratingly the same thing happened again and this time when I stopped running my right foot seemed to prefer being turned outwards in some type of ballet dancer position and I was only capable of a shuffling hobble. Off to the doctor I limped and I was diagnosed with Trochanteric bursitis. Here's the science bit:
Bursitis is the inflammation of one or more bursae (small sacks) of synovial fluid in the body. When bursitis occurs movement relying on the inflamed bursa becomes difficult and painful. Moreover movement of tendons and muscles over the inflamed bursa aggravates its inflammation, perpetuating the problem. (thank you Wikapedia)
You can get it in other joints, housemaid's knee anyone? and it is caused by repetitive movement and excessive pressure. Doesn't running include repetitive movement? This is not good.
Back to the doctors, I was prescribed some super strong painkillers, and sent off to the physiotherapists. My lovely physio gave me some acupuncture for a few weeks before teaching me exercises to strengthen my core and muscles supporting my hip. Everything is about your core apparently. After a month or so I was good as new and I started exercising again. A few months in and the bursitis started again.
Very boringly this pattern has been on repeat for the past two years with two further referrals to physiotherapy and one MRI scan to 'rule out anything more suspicious' Now that my centre of balance has moved to a new and interesting place, it has caused a flare up that has in turn caused tendonitis in a tendon going into my bum (which does have a fancy Latin name, I've just forgotten it) and terrible back ache. When I first went back to the doctors about this flare up, she patronisingly told me that it was the normal aches and pains of pregnancy. Two days later my leg gave way under me and if I had not been right next to a desk at work that I lent on to take my weight, I would of rather embarrassingly collapsed to the floor. Back to the doctors I went again, to see a different more competent doctor who referred me for yet more physio. BUT this time it was not my lovely physio lady, it was another woman who I'm sure is very good, but giving me a couple of exercises to do on a gym ball is not the way to fix this. I gave it my very best shot but I have to admit, I cancelled my last appointment because the hour out of my working day it took just to see her for just five minutes, and then of her not doing much did make me question whether it was a good use of her and much more importantly, my time.
This left me in an uncomfortable/sore/painful/agonising position. As pregnancy has gone on the back ache and hip pain has got to the point where it makes me cry or withdraw in to myself because the pain seems to fill my head so much I'm incapable of talking. Or hilariously leave me unable to stand up off the toilet. I had to shout for the other half to help me. I know we're married but who expects to have to help their thirty five year old wife to pull her knickers up when she's totally sober? So the other half took matters into his own hands and got the details of a woman who does remedial massage and uses something called the Johnstones technique* and forced me to make an appointment. I'll be honest, I was unwilling because of the cost but two appointments in and I'm impressed. My back pain is much better, the hip not so much, but I am optimistic that it is only a matter of time before this improves as well. The massage lady says that at some point I will have to learn to walk again because I'm doing it all wrong. Maybe by the time the as yet unborn baby takes his first faltering steps, I'll have mastered it.
*I have no clue what this is other than it involves rocking movements in with the massage.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Mam, don't read this one
I am quite a shy person and when me and the other half first got together I didn't have the necessary confidence to pull off a good blow job. Or skill come to think about it. From my limited experience, you got a cock, and sucked. No apparently this is not the case. I can only speak for my other half, but after some rather frank conversations what is much better is licking up and down and if the balls don't get any attention then I really needn't bother. There is still sucking at some point, but it is mixed in with so much more, slowly circling the balls with my tongue, massaging the balls with my fingers, licking up and don't the shaft, sucking slowly, sucking fast, maybe tickle his bum hole. It all goes on now. What turns him on most though I think is when it's all a bit porn star with me rubbing his cock against my face or my boobs are pressed up against his leg and my bum is up in the air. It seems to do the job anyway.
I tried to go all porn star the other day, but it doesn't really work the same way when a bump gets in the way and trying to press your tits up againt him in a sexy way is just uncomfortable. It was like some really bad porn film where the female has been instructed by the director to be as clumsy as possible and to huff and puff herself in to any new position. On the plus side, I can swallow again now. In the first three months when EVERYTHING made me nauseous, that wasn't happening.
Have I over shared? Possibly.
I tried to go all porn star the other day, but it doesn't really work the same way when a bump gets in the way and trying to press your tits up againt him in a sexy way is just uncomfortable. It was like some really bad porn film where the female has been instructed by the director to be as clumsy as possible and to huff and puff herself in to any new position. On the plus side, I can swallow again now. In the first three months when EVERYTHING made me nauseous, that wasn't happening.
Have I over shared? Possibly.
In-Laws
I have lovely in-laws. Proper lovely. I worked with my mother-in-law for a few years before me and her son got together and they have been nothing but supportive of me and my other half's relationship. When you read about all these evil mother-in-law's it seems refreshing that mine is so nice. This is how great they are. When we got our dog, my other half worked split shifts, I work office hours so between us we could look after the dog. The other half got a new job which was also office hours and the dog was going to be home alone and in stepped the in laws. My father-in-law picks him up and walks him in the morning, takes the dog back to their house where my MIL walks him later on before they return him to our house. For this I am eternally grateful. The dog isn't. Jack uses every opportunity at the in law's house to steal food. Anything left out and unattended for even half a second is stolen and eaten. It must drive them insane. But still they pick the hound up, day in day out.
My bump is their first grand child, and it is fair to say they are a little bit excited about it. They already have more equipment than we do. A changing station, a crib, a swing thing that seems to take up all their living room floor space and a pram. The crib is some type of family heirloom in which my other half, his sister and cousins have all slept in. It was offered to us to have at our house but me in my usual subtle, sensitive way went
'What do I want with a crib?'
'You can have it in your room when the baby's tiny'
'The baby's not going to sleep in our bedroom. It's going to sleep in his own room in his cot.'
'But all the babies in the family have slept in it.'
'That's why I don't want it.'
Yes, I know I'm a cow bag. So now they have the crib and are already on standby for full on babysitting duties. Hahaha, they have no idea how much I will abuse them.
My bump is their first grand child, and it is fair to say they are a little bit excited about it. They already have more equipment than we do. A changing station, a crib, a swing thing that seems to take up all their living room floor space and a pram. The crib is some type of family heirloom in which my other half, his sister and cousins have all slept in. It was offered to us to have at our house but me in my usual subtle, sensitive way went
'What do I want with a crib?'
'You can have it in your room when the baby's tiny'
'The baby's not going to sleep in our bedroom. It's going to sleep in his own room in his cot.'
'But all the babies in the family have slept in it.'
'That's why I don't want it.'
Yes, I know I'm a cow bag. So now they have the crib and are already on standby for full on babysitting duties. Hahaha, they have no idea how much I will abuse them.
Genetics
My beautiful nine year old boy is the spitting image of his dad. I see me in his mannerisms but in actual looks, it's all his dad...except around the nose, that's me as well. As a baby I would push him around in his buggy and EVERYONE would say, doesn't he look like his dad. I have never got a look in.
This time round what with my different cravings and what not, I was convinced I was having a girl. CONVINCED. So imagine my shock at the twenty week scan when a little winkie was pointed out to us on the screen. Now obviously in the grand scheme of things I don't really care whether it's a boy or girl, so long as they're healthy, that goes without saying. BUT. I have been hoodwinked, tricked, had the wool pulled over my eyes by my own body. Why let me think I'm carrying a girl if there is a little boy in there? I had stupid visions of colouring in, baking and a massive doll's house (I never had a dolls house) and now I'm stuck with football and rugby and noise.
None of this bothers me as much as my next secret thought. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. I am now relegated to incubator. There I said it. I'm going to push out this baby and he will be the spitting image of his dad, and history (all be it with different dad's) will repeat itself. I will love and care for a son who everyone says is the spitting image of his dad and I won't have a look in AGAIN.
BLOODY HELL.
This time round what with my different cravings and what not, I was convinced I was having a girl. CONVINCED. So imagine my shock at the twenty week scan when a little winkie was pointed out to us on the screen. Now obviously in the grand scheme of things I don't really care whether it's a boy or girl, so long as they're healthy, that goes without saying. BUT. I have been hoodwinked, tricked, had the wool pulled over my eyes by my own body. Why let me think I'm carrying a girl if there is a little boy in there? I had stupid visions of colouring in, baking and a massive doll's house (I never had a dolls house) and now I'm stuck with football and rugby and noise.
None of this bothers me as much as my next secret thought. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. I am now relegated to incubator. There I said it. I'm going to push out this baby and he will be the spitting image of his dad, and history (all be it with different dad's) will repeat itself. I will love and care for a son who everyone says is the spitting image of his dad and I won't have a look in AGAIN.
BLOODY HELL.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Sandwiches
I was innocently asked the other day whilst at work what my favourite sandwich was. I was asked via text, and my initial reply was, I need time to think, I'll get back to you.
Several hours later I sent a reply. The reply took several texts and went in to some detail so I thought I would share:
1. In first place, by some way due to it's rarity is a roast chicken sandwich. You may scoff at this being a rare event, but the circumstances have to be exactly right for the sandwich to be perfect. Firstly, the bread has to be some kind of soft wholemeal, a polish bloomer would be perfect. Each slice of bread needs to be evenly coated with room temperature butter. Not Clover or I Can't Believe it's Not Butter or Flora, but proper real butter. Now for the chicken. About six hours prior to wanting your sandwich you need to take a whole raw chicken, shove a lemon up its bum, smother it in butter, salt and pepper generously, place on a roasting tray and bung in the oven on a medium high heat until cooked. Now feel free to use some of this chicken for a roast dinner or something, but come tea time the leftovers are going on that bread. And for all you health and safety freaks, yes I have left the chicken carcass out on the side, but I have covered it in tin foil and put it out of reach of the dog. So place some chicken breast and thigh meat on one slice of bread, season, and on the other slice of bread all you need is a thin scraping of mayonnaise on top of the butter. Put this on top of the chicken, cut in quarters - yes I'm 35 and still quarter my sandwiches, you want to make something of it? And ta dah! Perfect. Now I know there will be weirdo's out there who are muttering about shredded iceberg lettuce or slices of tomato but NO, not required.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL SHOP BOUGHT ROAST CHICKEN BE ACCEPTABLE.
2. This was my lunch every day for about a year. (I have been described as somewhat faddy when it comes to food.) Smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Again, there are some tiny rules to this sandwich. The bagel can only be a multi seeded one, it gets cut in half and each half gets a good coating of full fat cream cheese. then on one half there needs to be some thinly sliced cucumber, and a pile of watercress. Then thin stripes of smoked salmon on top of this with a squeeze of fresh lemon and lots of black pepper. The other half of cream cheesed bagel goes on top and there you have it.
3. Tuna, sweetcorn and mayonnaise. The proportions never vary. For one tin of tuna (well drained and placed in a bowl) you need half a small tin of Green Giant sweetcorn. I am yet to find any tinned sweetcorn as nice. Then a good few tablespoons of mayonnaise - full fat of course and stir well. The ingredient that makes this is a good shake of malt vinegar, mix again and taste. It will be perfect. This filling should go on a granary seeded bread that has been evenly buttered. They have to be cut into triangle quarters.
I especially love a travelled sandwich. Any of the above wrapped in cling film and left on my desk at work all morning makes them extra delicious.
Now it turns out the reason I was asked what was my favourite sandwich was because my other half wanted to suprise me by making a picnic for us. When he finally got my reply, the roast chicken was way too much of a challenge, but I did get some very excellent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, along with little nibbley pastries and a cream cake.
Having re read the above, it would appear that:
a) I have an extreme dislike of low fat foods.
b) I am a sandwich nazi.
c) I have far too much time on my hands at work.
Several hours later I sent a reply. The reply took several texts and went in to some detail so I thought I would share:
1. In first place, by some way due to it's rarity is a roast chicken sandwich. You may scoff at this being a rare event, but the circumstances have to be exactly right for the sandwich to be perfect. Firstly, the bread has to be some kind of soft wholemeal, a polish bloomer would be perfect. Each slice of bread needs to be evenly coated with room temperature butter. Not Clover or I Can't Believe it's Not Butter or Flora, but proper real butter. Now for the chicken. About six hours prior to wanting your sandwich you need to take a whole raw chicken, shove a lemon up its bum, smother it in butter, salt and pepper generously, place on a roasting tray and bung in the oven on a medium high heat until cooked. Now feel free to use some of this chicken for a roast dinner or something, but come tea time the leftovers are going on that bread. And for all you health and safety freaks, yes I have left the chicken carcass out on the side, but I have covered it in tin foil and put it out of reach of the dog. So place some chicken breast and thigh meat on one slice of bread, season, and on the other slice of bread all you need is a thin scraping of mayonnaise on top of the butter. Put this on top of the chicken, cut in quarters - yes I'm 35 and still quarter my sandwiches, you want to make something of it? And ta dah! Perfect. Now I know there will be weirdo's out there who are muttering about shredded iceberg lettuce or slices of tomato but NO, not required.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL SHOP BOUGHT ROAST CHICKEN BE ACCEPTABLE.
2. This was my lunch every day for about a year. (I have been described as somewhat faddy when it comes to food.) Smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. Again, there are some tiny rules to this sandwich. The bagel can only be a multi seeded one, it gets cut in half and each half gets a good coating of full fat cream cheese. then on one half there needs to be some thinly sliced cucumber, and a pile of watercress. Then thin stripes of smoked salmon on top of this with a squeeze of fresh lemon and lots of black pepper. The other half of cream cheesed bagel goes on top and there you have it.
3. Tuna, sweetcorn and mayonnaise. The proportions never vary. For one tin of tuna (well drained and placed in a bowl) you need half a small tin of Green Giant sweetcorn. I am yet to find any tinned sweetcorn as nice. Then a good few tablespoons of mayonnaise - full fat of course and stir well. The ingredient that makes this is a good shake of malt vinegar, mix again and taste. It will be perfect. This filling should go on a granary seeded bread that has been evenly buttered. They have to be cut into triangle quarters.
I especially love a travelled sandwich. Any of the above wrapped in cling film and left on my desk at work all morning makes them extra delicious.
Now it turns out the reason I was asked what was my favourite sandwich was because my other half wanted to suprise me by making a picnic for us. When he finally got my reply, the roast chicken was way too much of a challenge, but I did get some very excellent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, along with little nibbley pastries and a cream cake.
Having re read the above, it would appear that:
a) I have an extreme dislike of low fat foods.
b) I am a sandwich nazi.
c) I have far too much time on my hands at work.
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