Being farted on whilst blogging, especially when one has very clearly used a pun on a literary classic as with my last entry, is never convenient. But at least Scarydancer’s jam tarts are blocking out the smell of his partysmokes, which he must have been inhaling right before I came home, because the house REEKS.
Sunday was particularly funny as Scarydancer met me and Lilsister at Mammy’s house after we inhaled our roast chickens, but instead of sitting with us at the table, spent some quality time in the sitting room alone, in front of the telly. Mammy made him up a plate to take away and asked him if he would like gravy. When no answer was forthcoming, Mammy simply put the cling film over the plate and left it there for him. Lilsister went to check with him again as Mammy’s gravy is particularly fabulous, being made up of meat juices, oils, fats and other healthy goodies. It is REAL gravy, and not for the faint hearted, or Australians, whose gravy is weak and puny.
Scarydancer was sitting in the dark, rocking backwards and forwards. Apparently, Mammy’s question had thrown him over his partysmokes induced edge, and he could ”not handle” making a decision on the gravy, and was freaking out.
We made a hasty exit, and Scarydancer went home, and ate the chicken dry.