Hello,
Well, the excitement of the deportation from Spain is now a treasured memory, which you can read about here, and we are getting back to normal at On The Pot Towers.
The weather has been lovely, my bowels are in fine fettle and I recently completed The Sun’s coffee break crossword in under one hour whilst I did me business the other day. Once I had worked out the answer to “Female Sheep” was ewe and not eye there was no stopping me!
Warm weather does strange things to people. Very strange things. One of the strangest of these strange things is Salad.
I must admit when my lovely wife Shirley slaps down a plate of raw food in front of me with the loving quip, “Eat it, it’s organic,” I am a bit disappointed. Lettuce? Spring Onions? Raw Carrot? Cu-fackin-cumber? If I want that sort of nosh I’ll climb into the hutch of Justin our rabbit with body image issues.
I’m a meat man. Always have been. Me old mum, Ma On The Pot and me would spend hours in the kitchen taking the veins out of liver or making faggots. That’s how we bonded, preparing offal. Ma used to say, “Meat doesn’t grow on trees son, always remember that.”
Then she would reach for the Gin and Capstan Full Strengths. Always raised her glass to the pictures of The Queen, Winston and Liberace that hung in the kitchen before she got tipsy. Class.
So wise was Ma. When sober. Which wasn’t very often. Smelled a bit too, come to think of it.
She never served up salad though. Made me the man I am today.
Laters and Lids Down Gents
Bob
