The smell of ground beef woke me from my traditional alcohol-induced coma
in time to see Lady Margaret Sainthead's gold macrame' slippers scuttling
out the door and down the hallway to her waiting audience of fans.
It was a monday - in fact it was *this* monday - today - monday today.
"Today is Monday" I croaked, my voice broken like a coffee mug full of old
black and white photos of the Carpenters in their famous years - before
Karen go into all that herbal diet shit.
I eased myself off the floor and up onto my bed, which was still covered
in the elastic tape bandages of the night before. Crunchy.
I checked the alarm clock which said nothing, being an inanimate object,
and read the time off it's face. The big hand pointed to the twelve and
the little one pointed to the floor below me. Then I remembered:
Sift the baking powder into the flour before you bake.
No wonder my scones didn't rise.
There was still time to set things right however, so I chucked "It's a
wonderful life" into the video and pressed PLAY.
Rushing to the kitchen, I grabbed some flour salt, butter and baking
powder and mushed them all together in a secret way that my mother taught
me. Hell, I don't even know what it is, I have my eyes closed the whole
time.
After all, it is a secret..
I bash out about 10 good sized scones and slam them into the oven just
as Jimmy Stewart's putting out some windows in the house across the road.
150 degrees celcius.
15 minutes later I have my face pressed to the glass of the oven, which
isn't all that comfortable, especially taking into account that the door
was open and I was taking the scones out at the time.
I throw five scones in a paper bag and slink to the elevator, pressing
the lift's 'G' spot as I go.
Still no sign of my brother.
At the ground floor I meet up with Sir Steven Golfclub and his wife
Lady Jane Golfclub-Golfclub, who was no relation but didn't want to lose
her right to use a hyphen when they had company over.
Both carried similar bags to my own.
We exchanged knowing glances and headed out into the Blistering Sun
of the Sahara, which was deserted today.
Chuckle.
I hailed a taxi and we all got in with a Jerk.
Chuckle.
I tapped on the glass, the driver held up his paper bag.
Sorted.