no thanks, i'm full

Some of you labour under the misapprehension that I don’t like the dog. A thought which makes me catch my breath, slap a hand to the bony breast bone and give a little light laugh, choking daintily, “No, no, no!” The dog and I are just fine.
It’s the cat I couldn’t stand.
Poison in fur that cat.
But luckily the kitchen fitter stole her, popped her on a cushion in the front seat of his van and took her home for his mam. I made sure the anti-cat locks were on and didn’t linger at the doorway.
Bye cat, missing you already. Not. Slam.

We had some people to dinner recently, part of the massive catch up surge needed to pay back a million mates (yes, yes, I CAN count) feeding us without return over the past couple of years. One of whom’s daughter was the original owner of Poison Puss, before playing pass the parcel with her and fobbing her off on us nearly 12 years ago. For Medical Reasons. Cat's not Girl's. Like one needs a cat with Little Ways. My arm is silvery with scars from de-fleaing sessions involving far too many claws. Our friend remained unconvinced that I had had Mog’s best interests at heart when the re-homing issue raised its furry head, which I found kind of rude.

There were so very many bottles following this dinner party that there was no way the men would be able to lift the recycling box on the Friday, so I staggered to the car (three trips) with carrier bags full to dispose of them (noisily) at the pub. I wore my dark glasses.
The crashing of bottles into the bottle bank split the air for about 3 minutes, despite me tipping them in at speed. It seemed suddenly very public all this, and three minutes really rather a long time when one is standing sliding bottle after bottle after bottle into, hopefully, the right slot.
I got confused over some of the greens and whether they were really brown.

It had been a good evening which destroyed the next day. I can’t take it any more, though God knows I try.
But the food had been fab.
I started boasting about what a fantastic meal it was to T11 the moment I got up – weak, exhausted, but ready to brag. He stared at me appalled.
It’s funny. Most of the time I’m extremely dismissive of myself, but every now again, usually after a fabulously-cooked meal, I can become extremely, and perhaps unpleasantly, smug.
Not in front of the friends, no, I do have some shame and sense of propriety, and they were treated to the usual defensive brush off, but T11 hadn’t managed to leave the room fast enough so I could indulge to the hilt in some full-on praise of myself and my exceptional cooking skills.
The meal grew, a fish fond in a fisherman’s memory, to transcend mere Made By Me status but toddled off instead, promoted, into the portion of Me Map marked “should have won a Michelin.”
I called to E for corroboration.
“Was not that curry one of the best you have ever eaten?” I asked, thinking of the curry by now as if made by someone else, so perfect was it.
“Can’t remember,” he said, “Seemed ok.”
“It was perfect,” I reminded him warningly.

We all ate left overs for supper and quite a lot went into the bin. Flanked round which, were still many drunken soldiers of empty wine bottles, making the lid hard to reach. Reacquaintance with this dish forced something different to emerge from the curry, making me reassess my reaction to it.
We ate largely in silence, me wishing for my dark glasses, the others in subject-avoidance.
The beast of the night before, a worrisome thing which haunts me too often, shifted the furniture of my memory. Random phrases emerged and I fretted that I had in fact, contrary to my modest assumption, indulged in some begging for praise at the time, praise which wasn’t necessarily going to have been highly deserved. I saw a flushed face thrilled with herself, busily explaining the recipe, and cringed.

One thing I was pleased to spot, though, was that F9 had turned off the computer prior to my wending my self-congratulatory way to bed, so I had no nasty sessions with the Sent Box of my e-mail to confront the next day. Ain’t life grand.