It is now 12.25pm and One is still in One’s jim jams feeling like hurling Oneself off the back step and ending it all.
One shouldn’t watch that festering Nigella. She always makes One feel inadequate in all departments, particularly the kitchen.
Today’s speedily created culinary delights were being enjoyed by all her pre-Raphaelite haired chums and their delicious daughters.
Nige, of course, never broke a sweat under the spotlight and over the steam. But she does often look like the application of a flannel and a cake of Lifebouy wouldn’t go amiss!
There’s One, troughing me way through a hunk of homemade (bread maker) bread with marg, whilst picking me feet, and there’s her sashaying around a kitchen with a footprint the size of the entire Stalag Malthouse.
She’s got more effing utensils than fecking Lakeland, hanging in her gaff. And as for…
‘I simply couldn’t live without Marsala.’ Silly Moo
What the feck is ‘Marsala’ when it’s at home?
Any road up in it went with a load of other lesser known ingredients, and hey presto, a fecking great luncheon is dished up on posh plates.
Who does the washing up? That’s what I want to know!
‘I’d much rather have a walk in larder than a walk in wardrobe,’ opined the wobbly one.
What the actual feck!
I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!
Today One will be mostly eating Lidls baked beans and drinking a box of wine.
SO FECKING THERE