A Night Out

A very good evening from the Lifestyle Support Guru! I have just returned from a visit to the cinema, but worry not – I am not about to regale you with another film review; I think the ‘sensual egg’ and the ‘passionate peach’ were enough for now!
However, I will simply say that Kenneth Branagh’s Belgian accent as Poirot in ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ left a little to be desired – and someone please tell me that French-speaking Belgians do NOT pronounce ‘les oeufs’ (eggs) as ‘les urfs’, with the ‘f’ and the ‘s’ being pronounced!

DODO and I arrived at the cinema and joined the small queue for tickets. The friend that we were meeting had arrived early and, just as we got to the head of the queue, came to ask us if we wanted something to drink. The conversation went as follows (try to imagine this all taking place at the same time):
DODO (to ticket seller): Two tickets for the film, please.
Friend: What do you want to drink?
LSG: I’ll have a half of Aspall’s cider.
Ticket seller: Which film?
D (to LSG): Which film are we seeing?
F (to D) What do you want to drink?
L: Mind’s gone blank.
F (to D): Murder on the Orient Express.
D (to TS): Murder on the Orient Express.
D (to F): A glass of wine.
TS: Any concessions?
L (to F): Ooh, I’ll have wine as well.

Sauvignon Blanc

L (to TS): One member with concession and one concession.
F: One red wine, one white wine, then.
L: No, two the same colour.
F: Two white wines?
TS: That will be £13.
L: No, I’ll have red as well.
F: Two red wines… and a cider?
L: No, just the wine.
TS: Should you two be allowed out without supervision?
How does one answer that?
‘Only on Wednesdays when our carer can accompany us – she’s gone to get the drinks.’
Bonne nuit!

A Day in the Life…

Good evening, Beloved Believers! Here I am, once again, to brighten up your dreary, mundane lives with tales of my exciting, fun-filled life.
Today was an exceptionally full day.

Movies

Call Me By Your Name

First, I was invited by Bazza the Friendly Geordie (the BFG) to accompany her to a foreign film and, knowing that these foreign films can be strange, I decided I would look for some reviews for it just so that I would be prepared.
Well, Devoted Devotees, the reviews did not disappoint, and I looked forward to seeing a film

which featured ‘sensual boiled eggs’ and which promised that I would never look at a peach in the same way again. The film was ‘Call Me By Your Name’ and was set in Italy in 1983, with accompanying 80s soundtrack, although I have to say I only recognised ‘Words’ by FR David.

It is the story of a burgeoning (good word, and one I chose myself!) romance between a 17-year-old boy, Elio, and his father’s research assistant, Oliver, an older man, one summer in Lombardy. Personally, I thought Oliver was a bit smarmy, although the reviews called him ‘a golden Adonis’; I would have called him a narcissistic show-off who thought he was god’s gift, but that’s only one opinion, even if it is that of the LSG. We were warned of ‘strong sex’ at the start of the film, which made me wonder if one could warn of ‘weak sex’, and just what that might involve, but I digress…

sensual boiled egg

I looked out for the ‘sensual boiled egg’, described by the Telegraph as ‘an unexpected gush of golden yolk which brought confused emotion to Elio’s face’; personally, I didn’t spot the confused emotion – I just thought that Oliver was a messy eater as far as soft-boiled eggs were concerned.

So, all rested on the peach, so to speak – small shivers of anticipation ran through me every time there was a shot of a peach tree, as I waited to see how my view of a peach could be changed for ever. At last the moment arrived – suffice to say that I may never be able to eat a peach again without certain images coming into my mind. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities by describing exactly what happened with said peach, but it involved the stone being dug out of the middle of it by Elio and the peach then being used by him… and I shall leave it at that. A lot messier than the egg yolk, believe me!

The scenery was beautiful and at times I thought I was, in fact, watching ‘A Place in the Sun’, although they didn’t produce a ‘mystery house’ as the final choice – unnecessary, anyway, as the peach was enough of a mystery!
The BFG enjoyed it, as did I – if I don’t fall asleep, that means it’s a good film.

This was then followed by some ironing (at home, not in the cinema) – ‘How is that exciting?’ I hear you cry. It was exciting because, when I handed DODO his freshly-laundered clothes, he went upstairs to put them away, then rushed back downstairs and said, smiling, ‘I thought I’d left this in Turkey!’, referring to a particular polo shirt which had been waiting to be ironed for ever such a long time… (he returned from Turkey in June…)

And finally today, we went to Derby Night Market where, firstly, DODO was amazed that the LSG managed to walk away from the leather handbag stall without buying anything (the handbags were leather, not the stall, and I already have two purchased from there on previous occasions, which DODO may not have realised…); DODO went off to take some photogenic photos of the cathedral while the LSG went for some refreshment (shopping is exhausting). Interesting to have a glass of wine in a place where one is used to having toast and coffee…

What a lovely day, full of a variety of events, friends (well, one – the BFG), food, drink, eggs, peaches…
Sleep well, Adoring Acolytes

Being A Sex Pest

A very good evening from the Lifestyle Support Guru, but I am sorry to say that it is with great sadness that I have to confess to being a sex pest. Given the confessions and disclosures of the past few days, I feel that it is only fair that I, too, should own up to having taken advantage of being in a position of power; in this particular case, the power came from being female. (When I say ‘came from being female’, I don’t mean that I am no longer female, but that I was female at the time – and still am – but had a little more ‘oomph’ then than I have now; in other words, age has taken its toll.)


I shall set the scene, as usual:
The scenario is an international rugby game at what was then Cardiff Arms Park, many moons ago, when you only had a seat if you were really posh; otherwise you stood and watched the game with the rest of the ‘normal’ people. The ‘party’ consisted of three people – the LSG, DODO and the male sibling of a very good friend called Karen (that’s the good friend who’s called Karen, not the male sibling…). We only had two tickets for the game, but didn’t see this as an obstacle to all three of us getting into the Arms Park – the optimism of youth (and a few pints of Brains Dark!).
We waited until the crowds had died down a little (well, actually, we ordered another pint in a nearby pub so that we could be sure of the crowds having died down…), then headed for the ground and waved the two tickets at the policemen standing at the first gates – but we waved them so quickly that they couldn’t tell if there were two or three tickets (they’d probably been ordering a last pint as well). The big test would come when we got to the turnstiles where it would be obvious that there were three of us, but only two tickets. Luckily, good friend’s sibling came up with a CUNNING PLAN! I’ll call him Nigel for the sake of anonymity.

Nigel: LSG, if DODO and I take the two tickets, why don’t you go to another turnstile and see if you can talk your way into the ground while the national anthems are playing. Come up with some sort of sob story.
DODO: Sounds ok to me. (Obviously has no problem pimping his sister if it means he can watch Wales play.)
LSG: Fine. (Obviously no problem with thinking up sob stories – useful for future reference.)

The LSG, in her younger and more attractive incarnation, heads for a different turnstile and finds a young man manning it (could a woman ‘woman’ it?). The conversation goes as follows:

LSG: I’m really sorry, but I wonder if you can help in any way? I came to the game with my brother and his friend but I’ve lost them and they’ve got my ticket for the game. (Remember, this was WELL before the days of mobile phones!)
Young Man: Oh dear, that would be a shame if you missed the game. (Strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ in the background.) But I can’t really help because I have to check every ticket through and you haven’t got a ticket…
LSG: What can I do, then? (Tears well in her eyes – further useful practice for the future.) They’ll be expecting me to meet them at the front of the enclosure. They’ve forgotten they’ve got my ticket.
YM: Well, tell you what, if you give me a kiss, I’ll let you through the turnstile.
LSG: Just a kiss?
YM: Yes, just a kiss.
(A nanosecond of thought because this was the 1970s and he wasn’t exactly the Omar Sharif of turnstile ticket collectors.)
LSG: OK

The YM closes his eyes in anticipation, expecting a passionate snog, but the LSG kisses him quickly on the cheek and says, ‘Can you let me through now, please?’ YM realises he’s been conned in some way, but opens the turnstile just as the Welsh national anthem starts!

‘And that, m’lud, is exactly what happened – at no time did I put my hand on the Young Man’s knee.’

Sleep well, devoted devotees!