Beloved has baked for me

Which means a new word for a new concept is needed

In the past he has brought us the concept of “oh he is so sweet, I love him so much” combined with “I am going to stab him in the face until he stops moving”

And now we have the “awww he’s so sweet, I love him so much” combined with “oh gods, save me from this, PLEASE!!!”

Does it say something that his “aww he’s so sweet” moments coincide with the urge to commit violence?

But yes, he has baked me a lovely, custardy desert according to one of my own recipes. Now when I make it it’s something like this:

Toasted, crunchy biscuit crumb based (from home made biscuits of course)

Sliced, dry, crunchy, lemony flavoured apples

Vanilla custard top with just a little nutmeg.

And it is yummy. It’s fresh and has 2 kinds of crunchy topped with smooth and light and sweet and rich.

When Beloved makes it:

Soggy mushy that used to be biscuits who must have sinned mightily in their previous lives to be subjected to this hell.

Wet, mushy apples, hardly chopped, still loosely connected by the skin that has been LEFT On so it can tangle and stick in your teeth

Scrambled eggs. Scrambled vanilla, sugar eggs. Forming yet more mushiness and a kind of texture that makes you think you are sucking on brains. Yes, exactly that texture. It’s the first custard that automatically triggers the gag reflex. The whole body says “hell NO that is NOT being swallowed” {Insert obligatory swallowing innuendo here}

It is in the fridge now. It is crying because nobody wants it. It is a sad and lonely custard. It is acquiring grief to make it even more revolting and depressing than it originally was. If depression was a food? It would be this custard. It is the essence of tears and wasted promise.

Beloved believes it is fine.

Beloved is delusional.

Beloved is not allowed back in the kitchen to use anything other than the kettle, the coffee machine and the microwave.

Maybe just the kettle.

I am ashamed

I just read that TV presenter Kristian Digby has died.

And I am ashamed of myself

I am ashamed of myself because my first thought wasn’t “damn, that’s a handsome, talented young man with his whole life ahead of him who has died before his time”

It wasn’t “it’s tragic that someone should die so young”

It wasn’t even “no-one should die unnecessarily and it’s a terrible tragedy when it happens.”

In fact, my first thought wasn’t one of sadness or sorrow at all – it was of dread, anger and irritation.

Because Digby was a gay man. And he died due to an apparent auto-asphyxiation kink gone wrong. And while I don’t particularly care what kinks people enjoy, I could already feel the coming judgment, the sweeping statements, the smug righteousness.

Gay sex kills. Kinky gay man killed by own lust. This is what the gays do, the gays die seeking sex thrills.

Never mind that auto-asphyxiation is a kink common to all sexualities. Never mind that it can be practised safely. Never mind that the death of one man would be a ridiculous way to judge an entire sexuality or an entire kink. But we know it will happen, because it always does. There will be fallout from this, the usual shamers, the usual attackers.

But I am still ashamed. I hate beyond words that I couldn’t spare a thought of sympathy for a tragically dead man before anger and fear kicked in. I’m ashamed that I thought about how Jan Moir would be cackling with glee before I thought about how his family would be grieving.

And that depresses me. It depresses me that I feel I need to prefer a defence from another avenue of attack before I can think of a lost life and a future cut short.