sparkindarkness | Entries tagged with beloved

Beloved: *unbelievably cheerful* Sparky! Hurry home, I miss you!

Sparky: *suspicious look at phone* what did you do?

Beloved: What? Can’t I just…

Sparky:No. What did you do?

Beloved: Look, before you get mad…

Sparky: I’m saving time, I’m already mad.

Beloved: But listen, listen, listen, because this is actually good I promise, listen…

Sparky: I’m listening. Do elaborate on this “actually good” thing.

Beloved: Well, there was a huge screw up at my friend X’s work (who works in the meat industry doing… meat industry type things) and he’s got all these chickens going really cheap. So I got some off him.

Sparky: That’s not bad…

Beloved: See! I mean, you said we could always use chickens so I said yes and loaded up.

Sparky: Wait wait, I said we could always use chicken. Did you just say chickenS?

Beloved: yes, same difference.

Sparky: Whole chickens? As entire full chickens? You’ve just bought a load of full frozen chickens?

Beloved: They’re not frozen.

Sparky: …ok… how many fresh chickens did you buy?

Beloved: Errr… not fresh exactly. More… defrosted. They were frozen and now they’re not. Shall I put them in the freezer?

Sparky: NO! You can’t refreeze defrosted raw meat! How many are there?

Beloved: I though you couldn’t, that’s why they’re on the kitchen units. You won’t believe how cheap…

Sparky: How many are there?

Beloved: You always said chicken’s so versatile. You can eat it every day for a month and…

Sparky: How. Many. Are. There?

Beloved: It’s not that bad.

Sparky: More than 2? More than 5? More than 10? More than 50? More than 100?

Beloved: Don’t be silly, of course there’s not more than 50.

Sparky: …you wouldn’t consider more than 10 to be silly?

Beloved: 10 is not that silly…

Sparky: Am I looking at a number between 10 and 50 chickens? Defrosted chickens? Are you telling me this? Really?

Beloved: Noooooo… don’t be silly! Of course not! Of course there’s less than 10!

Sparky: ok… so, how many.

Beloved: Only 8. *sigh of relief*

Sparky:…Eight whole chickens I can’t freeze?

Beloved: Yes. Fifty! You don’t have a lot of faith in me!

Sparky: Eight?!

Beloved: yes, only eight. See you soon! *hangs up*

Sparky: Wait! *dial tone*

Well at least it isn’t 50.

Looks like I need to cook a few dozen chicken recipes and freeze them. Why why why does he buy food? Why?!

A few years ago now, my brother moved to Anglesey, in Wales. He has visited multiple times since then (clearing out the cupboards every time – it’s like being visited by Huns) but I’ve never had occasion to schlep over to Wales to visit him. He insisted I take a weekend to come see him and take him to their wonderful local lobster restaurant. And to bring my wallet (of course – little brother and all that).

Beloved was most excited, he’s never been to Wales before. Which was amusing to watch because he seems to have this odd idea that absolutely anything will be different. You’d think we were going to distant climes but he was insistent it would be Different. He also expected it to rain all the time. I said he was silly and that was just a ridiculous stereotype.

And Loki heard me.

Road trip was uneventful (“it’s getting hilly isn’t it?” “yes, they’re called the Pennines.” “oooh Lancashire, aren’t we supposed to hate them?” “No, I am, you’re a southerner and don’t get to take part in our ridiculous, centuries old petty grudge.” “I’ve lived here for over decades now!” “And you’re more than 2 decades old – southerner.”) there was lunch, there were views, there was a bloody WIND because it was November in the Penines.

Then we crossed the River Dee and DARKNESS DESCENDED.

Literally, we had to turn on the headlights. It was like 2:30 in the afternoon and we had the headlights on. And it RAINED. I don’t just mean rained, I mean RAINED. It was the kind of rain where, if your cracked the car window you risked drowning in the deluge. This was maintained for the entire duration of our stay.

Beloved decided that Welsh was a great language for casting spells, at least from the little he gleaned from the road signs, and is still spending an inordinate amount of time chanting “Arath! Ysgol! Canol y dref! Ildiwch! Cerddwyr” rather dramatically (which sounds impressive by means “slow, school, town centre, give way, pedestrian” and probably not the chanting of some mysterious Merlin. Unless Merlin doubled as a lollypop man)

My brother dragged me round the sites – and by sites I mean “shopping” (and guess what that meant?) which included Llanfair PG (no, I’m not typing the full name, google it) which seemed to be a) a tourist hub and b) a tourist hub based entirely on its name.

What I did like was the terrain. It reminded me a lot of the North Yorkshire moors in a way – not that it’s similar per se, but that it has an incredible, stark beauty. Pretty to look at (and rainy, did I mention it rained? Because it rained. A Lot) but probably a hard place to farm. The terrain and the restaurants convinced me why this area is a holiday hot spot (or wet spot. Did I mention the rain?)

The lobster place was fabulous, my brother was right. But I’ll never be the biggest fan of lobster. I like it, don’t get me wrong, but I’m always left with a feeling of “I like it more than crab, but I don’t like it twice as much as I like crab – so why am I paying twice as much?” They also had nice oysters – but same applies. I like oysters but why are they a squillion times more expensive than mussels? Especially in Britain where we harvest metric fucktons of shellfish – then sell it all abroad.

It was nice to get away from it all for a couple of days, and it was probably my reluctance to relinquish the peace that led to my purging of annoyances (which I don’t regret and am glad something spurred me on at last). Even if we did get stuck in a traffic jam due to an accident and the Sat Nav redirected us to the UNMOVING ROAD above the road we should have been on flowed, slowly, but still flowed. I can only assume everyone had a Sat Nav like ours and they all said “ZOMG AN ACCIDENT! SLOW TRAFFIC! Let us now filter 8,000 cars on a country track designed for goats! SLOW GOATS!” resulting in it taking us 6 hours to get home.

I brought lava bread home with me, not sure what to do with it. And Welsh cakes. Which are like rationed fruit scones – where fruit and sugar severely rationed and no-one’s heard of baking powder or eggs.

Or, as I remarked, they’re like scones if Beloved baked scones. This may result in him defiling my kitchen.

Friday evening I had to pick Beloved up (his car is dead, again. I honestly have no idea what he does to his car – beats the engine with hammers I think) where he had decamped to a pub (Beloved doesn’t do waiting – which inevitably means if he’s ever waiting for you he will go do something or go to a pub and then you end up waiting for him). If there’s one thing I dislike more than straight pubs, it’s being in a straight pub when I’m driving so can’t drink. And if there’s one thing I hate more than that it’s being in a crowded straight pub when I’m driving so can’t drink.

So I was sat there, drinking something caffeinated and dropping not-so-subtle hints that Beloved and his friend J need to finish their drinks so we can leave when one of the loud and not entirely sober group of older men next to us makes a comment about a paedophile who has been in the news lately – his comment including several anti-gay slurs, accompanied with general nodding. The group of not-entirely-sober younger men not far away agreed rather loudly and made many disparaging comments – about gay men not paedophiles (thank you homophobic media for constantly conflating the two).

Then group number three made jokes and more jokes and jokes tinged with violence and then…. Jokes which weren’t even jokes at all but were rather menacing.

It’s at this point Beloved and I decide we did not want to be there. It was also at this point that J decided she wanted to speak up.

There followed a brief whispered argument in which we said if we wanted to commit suicide we’d make the choice ourselves, thanks; and we didn’t appreciate her nominating us for Gay Martyr to Hate Crime #7889675764746 and #7889675764747. Counter of needing to speak, to reject this crap while we pointed out we also would like to remain in once piece and I already have enough scars and a trick knee, I don’t really need to add to the collection – and if a pub full of violent homophobes realised we were gay, we were the ones spending the nights in the hospital. And we left, refusing to argue any more, leaving her the choice of speaking up without us in the room, following us, or arguing with our rapidly retreating backs. She followed.

But the car journey that followed was less than pleasant and contained an awful lot of me counting to 10. But she was in full on lecture mode about the need for visibility, how these opinions need challenging, how gay people should be able to go anywhere and feel safe yadda yadda yadda “I totally need to yell 101 stuff at gay guys who won’t play grand heroic martyr for me” with a side order of how brave X Y Z gay person was who stood up loud and proud at the Westboro Baptist church flamethrower and bible verse convention. And a firm belief that everyone was just talking shit and would totally have backed down if they’d been called on it., they were egging each other on and a reality check would have probably embarrassed them.

Uh-huh.

I dumped her on the pavement outside her house in ringing silence after Beloved (for once – and thankfully because I don’t like telling his friends when they’re being arseholes) was the one to snap and adamantly refuse to listen to another damn word and turn the radio up high when she tried to continue.

Needless to say this lead to a rather shitty feeling Saturday. Between logic and guilt – and always that sense that, yes there are some fantastically brave, heroic people out there past and present who have rose above far worse than this; but it’s not failure not to be a damn superhero. There’s no shame in trying to be safe and you don’t make a safe space by spilling lots of blood somewhere until it mystically becomes safe and, even if it does feel shaming or like failure or cowardice, sometimes you have to run. The first rule of any overwhelmed force is picking your battles. I’ve been beaten before, and burned and had bones broken – it doesn’t solve anything. There’s not a mystical amount of pain we can suffer that will suddenly make things better, a number of hospital hours you can clock up to gain an achievement.

And the police? I can see it now – I’ve seen it before - “your mouthy friend was giving them attitude and they retaliated let’s file it in the big section entitled ‘no-one gives a fuck’”. It’s not like they particularly give a fuck about anti-GBLT violence anyway – especially not when someone gives them a gold plated “they were asking for it” excuse (an excuse that applies to anything from “brushed past him in a crowd” to “held eye contact too long” to “look at what he was wearing!”)

Shouldn’t be that way? Yeah – “shoulds” are all very well and good, but “is” is what we live with.

The weekend has been brought to you by lots of booze, lots of cake and lots of angry baking and curtains that haven’t been opened for several days, because sometimes the world needs to stay out there.

So the instruments where items he was holding for a feriend who... does instrumenty-type stuff (I don't know, I don't like them so, consequently, don't pay much attention to their stuff).

It was only a temporary occurrence.

But he says he may be able to borrow them and more whenever he wants.

He apparently thinks this is a good thing.

I disagree.

Words will be exchanged.

****Beloved IS actually very musically talented but he has the attention span of a concussed mosquito. So he'll get an instrument, learn to be borderline competent and then he'll lose interest. Which means I'm treated always to the "horrible screeching" part of the learning process.

So it’s Saturday morning and I follow my usual routine, stagger out of bed around 10:00 (not a morning person, will not be a morning person, will stay up until 5:00am quite happily. Night time is good) and stagger down stairs. With much zombie groaning I fill my lovely pint mug with coffee (it has a warning on it, ordering people to a minimum safe distance. I love my mugs), I stagger into the living room, collapse on the sofa and fumble my kindle out of my dressing gown pocket.

One mug down and several chapters, it finally registers that there’s something poking me in the side. I look over and see a bassoon.

This is not an innuendo. For some reason there is a bassoon on my sofa. It could be an oboe I guess. What is the difference between an oboe and a bassoon anyway?

And a French horn on my coffee table. And a trombone on the floor. I think there’s a cased flute on the armchair

I reflected on this for a moment. Got up, refilled my coffee mug. After a few judicious sips I found the little writing pad on the fridge, took a sheet of paper and wrote a large “NO” on it and magnetised it to the fridge door. I took a sheet of paper from by the phone, pinned it on the phone board with another “No” written clearly and lastly, took a note bad from the drawer, wrote a very clear “HELL NO!” on it and left it on the coffee table. I then went back upstairs with my kindle and a third cup of coffee.

I don’t know how I’d deal with Beloved’s shenanigans without coffee.

It is now National Coming Out Day UK (one day later, don’t ask me why) and after much umming and ahhing, I’m deciding to share my own coming Out story.

It’s not that it’s a big secret, I’ve alluded to it in passing before, after all. My reluctance stems from the tone of the day – everyone is so happy and so celebratory and bouncing and sharing happy stories and tales of how much they are loved. I am reluctant to play the Debbie-downer since my story isn’t a very positive one.

But, after thinking and talking about this, I think it’s necessary to be the Downer because we need to remember that Coming out is serious, it can and does have a cost, it is risky and it isn’t all love and acceptance. In particular, we need to address this message of duty we’re seeing. That all GBLT people SHOULD come out, have a duty to come out, that they’re betraying us by not coming out etc etc. This has spread to such a degree that we have inordinate straight people in various fields encouraging, demanding and even shaming GBLT people into coming out. We have an idea now that being closeted is cowardly or failing. This is a terrible burden to put on people and we need to remember the cost and the risk of this. We also have a lot of people dismissing GBLT people’s coming out as casual or unimportant – or even ascribing an ulterior motive, like the homophobe who thought Anderson Cooper came out “for ratings”.

And the importance of the moment. It is becoming rather nastily common for straight, cis people to announce they are “coming out” about things which have nothing to do with being GBLT. I have seen people coming out as allies (ugh, no), coming out as Tories (ye gods) coming out as Geeks – and any number of other gross appropriations. I think recognising the risk and the fear may be part of countering this disrespect and casual dismissal and usage of such a powerful moment.

So, my story. I came out at age 14. I knew many many years before hand but I also knew from the constant contempt, shaming and homophobic language that my family was not going to be a welcoming place. I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t risk alienating my family, not just because I was a financially dependent teenager. I come from a culture of intense family ties. I grew up with people I called cousins whose only relation to me was the same great-grandfather or even great-great-grandfather. Our family reunions have attendance in the hundreds. And everyone is in everyone’s pocket, knows everyone’s news, everyone’s business, is in and out of everyone’s houses, constantly doing each other favours, sharing property, sharing insights, sharing opportunities, sharing gossip, sharing lives. I grew up with a list of dozens of phone numbers to aunt this and uncle that who, should anything ever ever happen, I knew I could call and they would be there within the hour. And the expectation that I would do the same for them. We didn’t have Christmas Card lists, we had Christmas card books. Family Was Important. All important.

But I had a friend. I had never not known him, we grew up together, we went to nursery and primary school together, our mothers were friends when we were both in nappies. I was sure I could trust him. I was wrong. When I told him, he hit me – cracking my jaw and kicking me while I was down – and we never spoke again. He did tell many other people though, leading to a… difficult school life that I’ve already mentioned.

( Read more... )

It’s not always easy. It’s not always the best time and, sometimes, it’s not just difficult, it’d down-right dangerous. No-one should feel the need to come out before they are ready to do so – and only they can know their circumstances and whether it’s safe or not.

Let us celebrate those who come out. Let us recognise what a powerful experience it is. Let us welcome those who come out. Let it be clear that we’re ready to support and help those who want to come out. Let us acknowledge the evil of the closet and what prejudice has done to us and our society. But let’s also stop this pushing people to come out – it’s not fair, it’s not sensible and it’s not right.

Edit to Add: And lest we forget: at a Coming out Day party in a gay club in Moscow, a gang of masked men attacked and put several of the partiers in hospital.

Now, there’s a very simple pasta bake recipe I tend not to use (I think it’s just a nasty lasagne without layers) but Beloved can usually manage. It involves mince (that’d be ground beef for the cruel abusers of the English language out there), chopped tomatoes, a few herbs, an onion, some garlic, some mushrooms. They’re all cooked together and spooned over pasta. Then a sauce made of flour, eggs, milk and cheese is poured on top. The whole thing is sprinkled with cheese and put in the oven to bake.

Yeah, I know – just make a lasagne, it’ll taste nicer and is less ridiculous. But it’s passable when done right and, when Beloved follows the instructions religiously, it’s not awful.

Yes…

I think the problem started with him not wanting to make a full one (which feeds 8 or something) so he cut the amount of onion, garlic and mince. Sounds sensible but now he is NOT FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS. We are now in the realm of BELOVED IMPROVISATION!

DUM DUM DUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!!!!

Ok, the first problem. Aware he can’t improvise he very very very carefully measures out the right amount of tomatoes for the reduced recipe and puts the remainder in the fridge. Then something distracts him and he puts the tomatoes he measured in the fridge as well. They’re there, right now, chopped tomatoes + tomato puree in the fridge.

Somehow MISSING that he’d completely failed to put tomatoes in he puts his cooked pasta (cooked without seasoning) in the baking dish… but there’s another problem. He only decided to make a smaller version AFTER cooking the pasta and, yes, he put the full measure of pasta in then spooned a micro-meter thin layer of the mince, mushrooms and onion on top. Also unseasoned. He’s in full confused mode now so no herbs have gone anywhere near, he assures me he got them out of the cupboard.

Now the white sauce. Milk, flour, eggs, cheese (seasoning – oh I how naive to wish for some seasoning). But no! He has taken out too much, silly Beloved. Measuring he puts the excess back – but, alas, he has confused himself and put all the cheese back without realising. And, rather flustered due to some dropped flour, he screwed up the maths on the flour – he has far far too much flour. Unfortunately the extra flour means the sauce isn’t thin from lack of cheese so Beloved doesn’t notice (hah, like he would have – but he assures me this is the reason). This (unseasoned) wallpaper paste is poured onto the bake. Into the oven it goes.

When it came out, without a nice, crispy cheese topping, I knew I was in trouble.

It was claggy. It was heavy. It had a truly revolting texture, a mix between porridge and cement. It tasted bland. It tasted like pasta floating in soggy flour. It tasted of boredom. It tasted of sadness, of hopelessness, of the death of joy. It may be the worst thing he has ever cooked.

Also, Beloved objects mightily to his food being called “the death of joy”. And he wasn’t very pleased with “it tastes of sadness.” He declared there is nothing wrong with his creation and he is stubbornly eating it – yes, he is eating it AT me to prove how unreasonable I am.

Since Beloved has been doing his gardening thing still, I found myself rather over-run with salady-type things.

And since I have been to the fish market, I have lots of tasty swimmy things. Decisions, decisions

Stuffed squid with salad! Hey let’s make it a crab salad, a crab nicoise salad. Oh and we’ll use those prawns and steam some razorclams I want to tryu this wine. And bread of course, that’ll go well with creamy muscles and…

….some hours later..

Sparky: Finished!

Beloved: *gape* what did you do?

Sparky: Cook dinner.

Beloved: Which regiment is actually visiting?

Sparky: So we may have some left overs…

Beloved: We need a whole new kitchen to store these left overs.

Sparky: The cat will eat some

Cat: *is daunted*

Beloved: I’m going to call some emergency dinner guests.

Sparky: That MAY be a good idea.

I’m beginning to think there are some people who sit by their phones every night hoping I’ve gone on a cooking frenzy, by how quickly they responded. You’d think I made a habit of it…

F: *bursts into the room* Fear not good citizens, the appetite is here to save the day!
Beloved: You have a costume…
Sparky: With a cape.
F: And elasticated trousers *stretches them* see? Saves me having to undo the top button for extra gluttony
Beloved: Ingenious
F: And it has a satchel for doggy bags.

Ok… maybe I might, just might, have done this once or twice in the past. But that doesn’t make it a habit.

I try to be an organised person – in particular I always make sure I have food ready to defrost and cook just in case I find myself unable to cook and I am faced with the dire threat of Beloved cooking. Beloved reheating I can just about manage (though it’s criminal what he has done to my food before now), but cooking? I’m a good person, I don’t deserve that.

Unfortunately, as has been previously obvious, Beloved gets his little… obsessions. The garden is continuing, he seems to be revitalising interest in the damn fish –and he wants to cook. To cook. The man who cannot reliably toast bread wants to COOK.

So, unable to cook, I left strict instructions on what beloved was to defrost, how he was to do defrost it and how exactly he could turn the frosty into the edible.

While he ignored.

Instead he decided he would inventively cook pork steaks in apple sauce with baked potatoes. Now, on the plus side it has to be said that he chose a less-than-inventive meal that should not be very taxing. After all, he couldn’t get this wrong, right, could he?

Ah-ha oh yes yes he could. I honestly don’t know what he would have done if we didn’t live together since university (yes, we lived together before we dated. Complicated). He would literally be dead now, dead, if I couldn’t cook. Dead. I’m actually sure that years ago he COULD cook competently back then – I seem to recall eating meals he cooked (for a given value of cooked) without fear… so maybe he’s right* and he has just rusted from lack of use.

Anyway I returned home to find this… meal prepared. And I was afraid, dear readers, I was sore afraid.

Like the baked potatoes. Now, there are 2 ways to do baked potatoes – slowly and lovely in the oven. Or quickly and not nearly so lovely in the microwave. Apparently there’s also a third method – quick and oven baked, all you do is set your oven to HOTTER THAN THE HEART OF THE SUN and then put in the spuds (presumably wearing Hazmat suits to get close to the oven) and they will cook in record time! With charcoal-like skin and completely raw centres.

Then there was the pork steaks. Now there are many ways we can cook pork steaks and make them delectable. Top of the list of things never ever to do? Do not put them under a grill (a raised grill at that) and slowly bake out every last drip of moisture and every iota of flavour. This steak wasn’t dry, it was desiccated. In fact, we need a whole new word for how dry this was. This is the aftermath of a world destroyed in fiery apocalypse. This is what happens if a desert became food. This is the very essence of dryness. So dry was this steak that we could have dropped it into a body of water and it would not only still be dry – but it would destroy all liquid it came into contact with.

And the apple sauce… now, I didn’t complain about the previous items on the plate not being seasoned because, well, it’s rather like complaining that a serial killer said mean things about you. But I found the missing seasoning – it was in the apple sauce. All of it. In fact, I think that someone needs to assure me that the North Sea still exists since I think Beloved dropped one of the steak in there and, after all of the water was absorbed, he scooped up the tons of salt remaining and put it into this… sauce. This over-cooked, stewed, salty mass of vileness. It was actually so salty it was nauseating.

In a perverse kind of way, I almost want to see him cook again – just because I am impressed at how truly awful his cooking can be.

*something I will deny ever ever saying, under torture

So today I was wandering along and happened to see one of my exs (exes? An ex anyway). Beloved, rightly, commented that I was looking waaay hotter than him which is, of course, what all right thinking people hope to be the case when spying an unpleasant ex and yet I didn’t smile as it deserved,

For I was having one of my Bad Moments.

Which is the frustrating. Because a part of me (ok, most of me) is still really not happy with not being over, well, everything. C’mon I’ve been in therapy for a while now, I’m taking the pills regularly (barring the odd hiccough), where’s the sanity? I want my miracle cure, damn it!

In fact, I’ll settle (at the moment) for being over anything – see, I don’t ask much brain, but can you at least resolve a few issues? Isn’t this what therapy is for? What the hell is the point if these nasty pills (and their nasty side effects) and dragging all (ok, some, not quite up to all) of the nasty shit out for therapist blokey to poke through if it’s not going to FIX anything?

Ok, ok, yes, when I first went to the guy I was in the Spiral of Doomness and I have stopped getting actively worse which, yay, progress and all that. And no, I’m not as bad as I was at all, everything is much more MANAGED now; there’s not nearly so many Bad Moments and the Bad Moments aren’t as Bad and I can, pretty much, keep things on an even keel. I am no longer drowning. I’m afloat. Soaking wet and on rough seas, but afloat.

But when do I reach dry land (to overextend this maritime metaphor beyond all reason)? When does it all stop, the Bad Moments, all the ickiness, the pills, the therapy, the whole caboodle. When do I push the magic “I’m currrrrrrrred button”? Which I should probably ask therapy blokey. But I can’t – I’m not a fool (much), I know the answer to that could be “well, it’s never going to be cured, it’s about management.” Which I don’t want to hear, I think part of the way I keep putting up with it all is an unspoken understanding of temporariness. I’m wary of my own reaction if I get confirmation; so either I don’t ask the question or I do ask it and start chanting “nah nah nah I can’t hear you” with my hands over my ears if he says something I don’t like. Which is very undignified and a bad habit for therapy, methinks.

But… I need some more progress… which, of course, I’ll probably dismiss once it happens and demand more because that’s me, but still. This is feeling like a holding pattern and I don’t want to hold here.

Though, tbh, and coming back round on the “I should be fair” train because if I don’t, I’ll end up talking myself out of therapy and the pills (again *cough*) and Beloved will have to drag me there by my hair which is also very undignified. Also, split ends. So, to be fair, I haven’t discussed my bad exes much with therapy blokey, because when I first did, I also said that, basically, at the time I had “victim” written across my forehead in block capitals because I’d internalised so much self-hatred and homophobia that I’d endure just about anything and smile about it just for the sake of any shred of affection or potential acceptance. And therapy bloke instantly gave me a very wonderful lecture on not accepting blame, that it wasn’t my fault yadda yadda, yeah very good – but too simplistic. There’s a difference between “blaming the victim” and accepting that being previously homophobically victimised set me up to be a victim again. Of course, that may be because the first words I ever said to him were “You blame any of my problems on being gay and I walk.”

And that sounds awfully like putting road blocks in my own path. Ugh, thank you Reason-Brain, for ruining my perfectly good pout.

Y’know, there’s way too much being fair here. I’m going to pout and sulk and meanly blame people for stuff I’m not letting them cure while drinking all the pear cider in my office mini fridge (because when Sparky is emptying the bottles, he’s not going down stairs to do it). Actually since there’s 36 bottles, I probably shouldn’t do that.

Probably.

(Actually definitely, since Beloved has made a gentle "ah booze as a coping mechanism I see," joke. Which is ANNOYING because if he'd criticised or nagged, I could have ignored him and drunk defiantly but nooooooooo he has to gently poke at the wisdom of it instead. Bah.)

There are some things that are never good, some things that are guaranteed to cause panic.

And one of those things is a phone call at 4:00am. That nearly always means something is on fire or someone has died. Or, well, in my case, it means I'm on call and someone needs me to turf out to the police station and/or swear at them and tell them to say nothing until morning and I've had some sleep. I'm told the latter is unprofessional. I say professional and 4:00am are mutually exclusive concepts.

So when the phone rang this morning I was pertubed, even more so when I recognised the voice not of my work place, but of one of my many cousins, I was concerned and ready to give condlences (he lives in California, leaping into action is a somewhat limited option).

Cousin: Sparky! I need your help

Sparky: Don't worry, take a deep breath, I'm here (what? My family's prone to excessive panic). What do you need?

Cousin: oh... I just wanted you to help organise a few things for our trip

Sparky: Your trip?

Cousin: yeah, we're coming home in October for a few weeks, thought you'd be the best person to organise it, being all legal and all (Not that he needed legal help, but he had forgotten whether he was a British citizen or not. As may be guessed, he's not well known in the family for his intelligence)

Sparky: Is there a deadline or something?

Cousin: No... I thought this would be a good time?

Sparky:... What time do you think it is?

Cousin: 8:00 by my watch

Sparky:... I mean here.

Cousin: Lunctime?

Sparky:... We're 8 hours ahead of you. Not behind, not unless the Earth started rotating the other way.

Cousin: Oh... so what time is it?

Sparky: 4:00. In the morning.

Cousin: Ah...

Sparky: You might want to think twice about crossing the Atlantic. I can reach you on this side. *hands up*

Which is annoying.

But what is more annoying? Is Socks, the cat, noticing this.

Socks: You are awake. That means you should be stroking me *nuzzle nuzzle*

Sparky: Go away cat, I'm alseep

Socks: Such lies you tell. *nuzzle nuzzle*

Sparky: Beloved wants to play *picks up cat* *deposits on Beloved*

Beloved: *has anticipated and burrowed under the covers until only a few square inches of blond hair are visible* *produces very unrealistic snore*

Socks: *returns to me* Stroke me human *nuzzle*

Sparky: If the cat keeps me awake all night I'm going to be grumpy and make everyone around me suffer

Beloved: You're at work today, not my problem.

Sparky:A ha! You're awake *deposits cat on him again*

Beloved: Talking in my sleep *unrealistic snores start again*

What is more vexing is that insomnia has robbed me of sleep all damn week. And now, the first night with actual sleep? The universe hates me.

When it comes to actual snail mail, I tend to leave it for a while. No-one sends me letters – that isn’t a pitiful Gabriel Garcia Marquez title (I hated that book, we had to read it in Spanish at school) , no I just do everything online. So a fair amount of my post is junk mail (or, recently, religious pamphlets) or things that aren’t urgent. So I collect them, dump them on the coffee table and have a look through them when I have the time or inclination.

This is a habit which, for some reason, vexes Beloved even more than my ruining Star Trek for him.

So, with the cat being unusually active, he decided to encourage her to play with one of the junk letters. She was very much amused for almost an hour – which amused Beloved a great deal despite the shredded paper

Of course the cat thinks this is great fun and has taken to hooking any post off the coffee table and proceed to shred them across the living room floor. And, of course, she doesn’t know what post is junk mail and what isn’t. She also has great fun scattering the itty bitty pieces of paper

He is proud of his ability to teach an old cat new tricks

I am proud of my restraint in not murdering the pair of them

It was Sunday, it was early (opinion is divided as to how early. I think it was “You’re shitting me O’clock” Beloved believes it was “virtually night time!” I think I’m right – if it were nearly night time my aim would have been better) when I was rudely rousted from my bed, forced to get dressed and bundled in the car with a flask of coffee and a bread roll.

I drank the entire flask of coffee. And we stopped at a coffee shop for a giant cup of coffee to go. And an iced coffee that I drank right after that. At this point I was capable of polysyllabic communication and realised a) we were out of coffee! STOP! And b) where the hell were we actually going and why?

“You’ll see!” was the only answer, with an annoying about of chipperness. I was to “enjoy the ride.” And apparently “enjoying the ride” means I’m not allowed to pull out the kindle and read.

After a moment of driving (and watching for a coffee shop) beloved has paroxysm of delight because he can see… the SEA! I do not even slightly understand Beloved’s fascination with salt water.

We arrive at the beach and he throws off his shirt and runs to cavort in the sea (salt water does not go near my hair. Ever) under the blazing sun (seriously, it was ridiculously hot) while I drop in at a local chemist and ask for SPF 9,000,000 sun cream and some aftersun for the inevitable and flop down on a blanket on the beach (to keep away that horrible horrible sand. I hate sand) with my kindle. Beloved eventually flops down to dry in the sun and I get to slather a thick, creamy substance all over his half naked body. (He protests, as usual that he wants to tan. Every year he tries to tan. He has the skin tone of Edward Cullen. He cannot tan).

While I am, grudigingly, inclined to admit that a day on the beach (so long as one can avoid the evil of sand and the vileness of salt water) eating ice creams and drinking coffee isn’t the worst way to spend the day (but ye gods it was hot) but I put my foot down at picnicking on the beach. Sand and food do not mix.

So, after using the blanket to protect the car from Beloved who was now salty, slimy, sandy and sweaty (despite vigorous towelling on his part to convince me to let him come near me while being all manky. See, this is why I can’t get behind the sexiness of the beach – sure there’s eye candy but it’s yucky as well) and moved more inland to green and pleasant pastures.

After I grudgingly accepting that we weren’t, necessarily, going to be inundated and overwhelmed by ants, wasps, flies and snarks, we unloaded Beloved’s picnic. Which contains all the excess food we’d BBQed on Saturday, fresh bread, butter and other baked lovelies and pickles. And no cutlery. Ah Beloved. (Did you know it’s quite easy to spread butter on bread with a credit card?)

I have conceded that actually being outside isn’t entirely awful all of the time. Just most of the time. And if he wakes me up before 11:00 on a Sunday again I may kill him

So, as I mentioned, Beloved has experimented with home wine making. I thought he’d forgotten about it but apparently that jug of… stuff that has been in my way in the back of a cupboard is actually wine.

Hmmm.

And Beloved wants to try it because it’s ready.

Uh-huh.

Now, I’m actually quite fond of living so I declined to try the questionable liquid, at least until a suitable guinea pig has been found to test it on.

Enter F who, on hearing that there’s potentially lethal free booze on the go, was there so fast she virtually teleported. She also has the super power of hearing a tequila bottle open at 10 miles distance.

So they try it and quickly conclude that it is rather strong (and tastes like fiery battery acid). So strong, in fact, that they wonder if it counts as wine or spirits.

There follows a lively debate on exactly what the difference is. After much discussion they decided that if you throw a lit match in room temperature wine, the match will go out. If you do the same in spirits, the spirits burn. Pleased with this test, they went looking for matches.

It’s at this point I decided it was appropriate to intervene.

And people wonder why I worry about leaving Beloved unsupervised.

Beloved’s work place has started giving him grey hairs (which is normally what my job does) but with all the marriage equality in the news, he’s treated to daily debates on whether or not “the gays” need marriage/want marriage which is apparently raging fiercely across the work place. He’s the only gay person in the place and his work mates are oh-so-surprised that his extremely patient and affable nature has snapped and he is dragging arses on the carpet for presuming to know what “the gays” want and why, in the name of all that is sensible, do they even give a damn one way or the other since it doesn’t concern them.

His colleagues don’t understand why he’s getting ever more pissed off at them. Because it’s fun to have a bunch of straight folks judge the merits and worthiness of your relationship, right? Let alone getting to enjoy it every damn day.

In general, I think my Beloved is approaching a burn out similar to the ones I have regularly (albeit more stably because, well, Beloved’s brain isn’t full of the badness). His work place has less of the splodey issues as mine and he’s never had the closeness with his family to make them sporky nor has he had a past on the level of mine – but his work place is hardly friendly, his family not exactly warm and his past hardly rosy. He also has a wider circle of friends that, frankly, I would have cut loose (or cut into teeny tiny pieces) long since, one of the barriers to us going out more is any circle of his friends is going to include some friends or acquaintances that will make us both want to slap them before the night is out.

Besides, even if all of these were super shiny, it’s just impossible to duck all of the shit that’s out there. Yes, inset my bitter rant at how much living in a straight world is unpleasant on so many levels. I think it drags us all down now and then. I think Beloved has been brewing this one up for a while – it certainly explains him deciding, after years of being a fan to dump his anime (though I’ve moved it into storage in case he wants to come back to it) with a rant about how he’s sick to the back teeth of dodging round any gay representation because of the trainwrecks.

I’m hoping to batten down the hatches, have a straight-free home for a little while, keep the TV off and engage in some quality hermitting. Quality alone time together to rebuild and recharge. Especially if I can poke him to take some days off away from the “hey, are gay folk really human” debates.

And I’m cooking and baking up a storm – yes good food doesn’t cure everything but at least you can be upset and hurt with bacon, chocolate and lots of cake and stuff that is very not good for you. Actually toasted things seem to be the favour of the day – so teacakes, muffins, crumpets, pikelets and bagels ahoy! I need to stock more yeast.

So I roasted a chicken (well part of one, the rest will go in a honey and lemon and mustard sauce and be yummy tomorrow or Tuesday) with trimmings (too many veg. BUBBLE AND SQUEAK HERE WE COME!) today – not because it’s Sunday but because it was “how long has this chicken been in the freezer?” day.

So there it was, all laid out. Chicken, peas, carrots, parsnip, stuffing, mash and roast potatoes and, of course, some cranberry sauce.

And then I frowned. I confess, while I make many things from scratch, cranberry sauce is not one of them (simply getting cranberries is a bit of a hassle anyway), besides, I’m not a lover of it (yes, Beloved will no doubt point out that if I don’t love it, it tends not to get made and he is forced to sneak it into the house after late night shopping trips. He exaggerates. A little). Anyway, I frown at the goop in the little sauce thingy because it doesn’t look quite right.

I take some, taste it then smile and watch Beloved eat for a while. Until a confused and faintly horrified look crosses his face. He chews slowly brain trying to catch up with what’s happening

Sparky: Problem?

Beloved: Um… what did I just eat?

Sparky: Well, it looked like chicken, some stuffing, a small piece of roast potato, covered in gravy and a big dollop of strawberry jam.

Beloved: Strawberry jam? *pokes red stuff that does, indeed, have seeds in it*

Sparky: Yes. It looked positively revolting – was it as ghastly as I imagine?

Beloved: Not as awful as you’d think but… yeah pretty damn awful…

I would also like to refer him to an argument I believe we had in, oh, 2009? I think it was 2009. I will have to check my diary of “I Told You Sos” (I get to cross one out!) to be sure. Anyway, this was in the aftermath of one of the great Condiment Wars that constantly rage. However at the time I insisted that if he MUST add ingredients to the food I’ve cooked AFTER I’ve finished cooking then at least put them on the side of the plate for dipping and scooping rather than layering them all over the food until every iota of original flavour is destroyed (especially before tasting. OOOOH is there ANYTHING more annoying than people who add seasoning and condiments to food you’ve cooked before they even taste it? Hanging offence. No, hanging is too good for them.)

See, if he hadn’t decided to “humour” me then, his entire dinner would now be covered by strawberry jam. This proves that I am right. Someone call me the Doctor, I need to go back to 2009 and say “I told you so” with appropriate smugness.

So another holiday in which I largely avoided family (well, there was an awkward awkward dinner involving Beloved’s parents, a sadly overcooked piece of lamb and all the pre-bought things that I normally shun. But I was polite and they were polite and it was such a very polite affair. Like the kind of dinner one would expect to have if, say, you invited your boss round one day albeit without the creeping and brown nosing.

I did spend some time on the phone with my brother again, this is getting more frequent, it suggests he’s going to drop in at some point, he usually does *is prepared for Hun invasion*. However, I did point out that I had bought mother an Easter egg and he had forgotten which officially made me the Good One (one of the eternal elements of familial politics is how quickly family favour can shift in the grand scheme of things and how the coveted title of “Good One” also conveys the passive aggressive dig of “Bad One who doesn’t care and is his arm broken because he never picks up a phone!” Which goes to show that our family is never happy without feuds, snarks and sulks) Brother mine pointed out that I could never be the good one until I started dating women.

Which, well, hmmm… that rather upped that ante in a manner that was inappropriate for the discussion, as I would have thought would be rather obvious. He still doesn’t get why he crossed a line that didn’t need to be crossed and I just don’t have the energy to walk him through it.

It does make me wonder what my parents talk about with him when I’m not around – but not very much since I already have a pretty good idea and I’m not going to seek a wound to poke.
Since I managed to avoid all the family holiday stuff pretty much, brother mine does wonder if I’m, ever going to rejoin to fold and, if so, do I need help.

And, y’know, the answer’s probably no. The great big huge extended family of stress just doesn’t seem even slightly appealing to me. I just don’t trust them and I don’t think you can be part of my family, part of my family culture, without some element of trust. And I don’t have that – I don’t have any of that and I can’t help but see them as a threat – which is hardly conducive to rebuilding family bonds.

And, besides, even if we were to rebuild these burned bridges it simply cannot be me that does the rebuilding. They’ve done too much for me to make the first move, for me to make the concession. Frankly, the only way we could lay the foundations for those bridges is if they have finally realised that their actions are not acceptable and, even if they’re not going to apologise and make nice, that they’ve got to at least stop being homophobes. When that happens they may feel the need to try and close the rift, but until that happens I am not going to try and bring us together when there’s a damn good reason for us to be apart – and for me to want us to be apart.

In other news, in typical Beloved fashion, Beloved has decided he no longer wants to be a carpenter. Wood is apparently unco-operative stuff, saws are sharp, hammers are heavy, he’s stabbed himself with a screw driver and he has splinters everywhere. Alas, his first creations had a certain Rorschach quality wherein every viewer had a different interpretation as to what they were actually for. Given the sharp edges, sticking out screws, splinters and generally solid nature I think they were designed to be weapons.

Beloved had a day of sulking but now seems to have adopted the “woodwork? What is this woodwork you speak of? I have never heard of it” attitude. So we are officially pretending it Did Not Happen.

So I look at the meal I've cooked and I'm sure there's something wrong, but can't quite figure it out. Salmon en Croute, big, crusty-skinned jacket potatoes and fresh baked, still warm bread rolls. Yes, it looks yummy (lots of sour cream as well).

Beloved certainly set too with a vengeance. There was much devouring and much arguing with the cat over whether she liked salmon or not (we told her she didn't, she told us we were dirty rotten liars who will give her fish now.AND some butter)

Belvoed then declared the meal to be the reverse Atkins diet - carbs carbs carbs...

And then I remembered that the purpose of carbs is to be FILLING. And pastry + spuds + bread is very very filling indeed.

I felt the spirits of my grandmothers smiling upon me.As good Yorkshire cooks, they know that thetrue sign of a good meal is diners who can't pry themselves out of their chairs afterwards. If they can walk, you have failed and need to use more suet.

However, in retrospect, some vegetables may not have been out of order. I now feel vaguely guilty. Maybe I should have placed some salad leaves at the sid eof the plate to be ignored so we could claim healthiness.

So on the old, ongoing obsession, beloved has started planting things out in the garden. Turnips and potatoes and onions so far, I think. Maybe beetroot as well. Since there is frostiness he has also taken steps to prevent his seedlings, bulbs and seeds from birds, insects and cold with lots and lots of improvised

Now, looking out of my window I don’t know if the appearance is better described as the “Inhabited by Squatters” look or the “Landfill” look. Neither is very appealing. I comfort myself knowing that in a few months we should enjoy the “Tractless Jungle” look, which is much more pleasant to look at.

I am struck down by the dreaded lurgy and am unwilling and able to deal with anything. Beloved has exploited this and has taken up a new hobby.

Carpentry. I think.

Now, where I at full health I would gently patronise him, insist he read some books on the subject and then, perhaps, allow one manual saw, one hammer and, maybe, 20 nails along with one medium sized wooden board to play with until he gets bored/decides it’s too much work/hits his thumb with a hammer and sulks with the whole lot.

Alas, I am not at full health. And I find that our garage has now become home to what can only be described as timber. Copious amounts of dead tree.

I did intervene before the power tools were added. Well, before most of them were added. And I had some others returned. I’m quite sure no-one needs this many saws. Still, there is a good deal more stuff getting past me than I normally let slip when he has a new obsession.

I have a feeling this is going to be very very vexing in the coming days. And noisy.Oh it's going to be noisy.And ye gods the sawdust. Maybe if I hide it'll all go away

And if he thinks any of that tortured wood is coming into my house then clearly he is in no fit state of mind to be operating dangerous machines

So I'm toiling away in the kitchen cooking a Sunday dinner for Beloved and several guests when they announce they havew taken steps to help me.

They have shopped

Shopped *crack of thunder*

And they have bought... frozen yorkshire puddings. Here I am, bowl full of perfect batter in the fridge, in Yorkshire no less, and they bring frozen yorkshire puddings into my house.

And they have bought... stuffing. A pre-packed, dehydrated stuffing mix. It resembles bird food. And, of course, I have made not one, not two, but three kinds of stuffing myself.

And then... THEN... they revealed the frozen roast potatoes. With my own gems sizzling away in the oven.

As if this weren't enough to already justify me blending them into gravy - they then revealed the pudding. The frozen cake. A horrible, artificial looking, FROZEN CAKE.

The cake alone would cause even the mildest of cooks to launch themselves across the room, whisk upraised in berserker rage. And for those roast potatoes then we have no choice but to summon the horde. Yes, this outrage demands barbarians - Call the Goths, raise the Huns.

And they actually showed me their purchases while I was in the kitchen. With knives and fire in easy reach! And bladed devices powered by electricity! What reckless courage is this?!

Needless to say, words were exchanged

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Spark In Darkness

So I got a phone call

Wales!

I've drunk all the booze again

Beloved and instruments

I am not even going to ask

National Coming Out Day part 2

Beloved has set a new record for sheer awfulness in cooking

I may have cooked just a little too much

Beloved cooks. Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid

Frustration, Badness and Wanting a Cure

Give Me the Serenity not to Murder People with Axes

On Beloved and Kitties

Sun, Sea and Sandwiches

Beloved, Bad Influences, Alcohol and Matches

Beloved, Badness and Baking

Dinner time! What sauce for the chicken?

Random stuffness

And why I could never do the Atkins Diet

An update on Beloved's obsessions

Beloved has shopped

Profile

April 2015

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