Free rice

If you are a wordsmith, then test your vocabulary and do some good at the same time. If you go to www.freerice.com, you'll see what I'm talking about. The more word definitions you get right, the more grains of rice you'll donate to those who need it. I got up to 2000 grains before I realised that I'd strained my brain to fill one bowlful. Mind you, I'm not so anal that I'd actually sit and count every grain in a bowl. This is pure guesswork. Perhaps 2000 grains is two bowlfuls. Or, tragic thought, maybe it's only a cupful. Still, if you're starving, you'd be heartily glad of that.

Talking of food, I'm off mine. I've been off it for days. My ulcer is playing up again and, rather than go to the doc's and be given more drugs, I have booked to see a homeopath on Wednesday. More anon.

As far as remedies are concerned, I can never understand why things work for a while, then seem to stop working. I mean, my stomach had six-pain free weeks. I was looking forward to a future in which I could plan things and actually go and enjoy them and now I'm back to postponing and cancelling things again. Why?

Mind you, I have had some bitter blows workwise, which have added to my stress (a company I've done over £1000 of work for who can't pay, and the loss of a regular, reliable magazine column - my horoscope for Fiesta), plus some disappointments and disruptions with Mr Grumpy. He'd run out of firewood for his wood burning stove. Night after night he'd sit in front of it, with freezing hands and feet and no warm, comforting glow. So generous muggins here goes onto the internet and orders half a ton of logs at a cost of over £100. Two days before they were due to arrive, Mr Grumpy gets a parcel. He'd bought a ski suit on eBay. That night he sat proudly and warmly in front of his empty stove while I sat there feeling foiled.

The wood arrived. No word of thanks from Mr G. Almost simultaneously, so did Mr G's nephew who told me off soundly and said if I'd mentioned it to him, he could have organised a free heap of logs. Then Mr G told me he had some coming from a friend. So I could have saved my money. Instead, I feel crushed and that my generous gesture was not just rejected, but I was made to feel as if I'd done something wrong. I feel like a silly woman in a man's world, and that I should have left things like ordering logs to the men. Yet Mr G wasn't doing it himself and as he's had two strokes, I wanted to do something nice for him, that would benefit him. I can't do a bloody thing right!

Neither can Open Heart Surgery, the scarred pigeon (see previous posts). From being Bossman Pigeon in the garden, he has been demoted by a brash newcomer with a bronze chest and a particularly long, curved beak. Now every time OHS appears, Ruddy Chest drives him away. My mother reckoned I was born uttering the words, "It's not fair." I'll say it again, loud and clear: NOT FLAMIN' WELL FAIR!!!"

Food Orgasms

My surname rhymes with ‘greed’. When I was little, my mother used to say that Greed was what it should have been as I was famous for scoffing everything put before me, then, not surprisingly, getting a stomach ache. I can never resist the lure of seconds, or even thirds. It’s the taste and texture of food that appeals to me. The crunch of a well roasted potato, then the glorious breaking through to the soft, floury interior, gives me an orgasm of the teeth. The combined flavours of salt (Lo-Salt, naturally, though I crave sea salt and give in on occasions) and the juice of the chicken, lamb or beef that they were based in gives me an orgasm of the tastebuds. Thus one might conclude that food is often better than sex.

Two nights ago I was laid low by the very last roast potato. Five were left on the roasting tray and they were about to be slung onto the lawn for the delectation of the mangy fox. Even his brush is devoid of hair and his sorry condition makes him resemble that ghastly breed of furless cat, with a length of pink cartilage for a tail. He won’t survive the winter without fur so I am determined to feed him well and give him a good summer. However, my generosity didn’t amount to five roast potatoes, so I ate two more. Then one more. The fox got two and I hope he was grateful. Maybe it was his accusatory vibes that kept me awake all night, groaning and rubbing my tum.

In the morning, I had a coffee date I didn’t want to break as I had cried off last time when my ulcer was playing up. Scrabbling in the cuboard, I found a box containing one Yogi Stomach Ease tea. I drank it before going out and as I journeyed, I felt the discomfort gradually easing so that by the time my friend arrived, I was bright eyed and bushy-tailed (compared to that poor fox, anyway), if somewhat tired from having all of three hours’ sleep. I originally tracked down Yogi Teas on-line, after discovering a sachet in my sister’s kitchen in the Lake District. It had been there so long that she didn’t have a clue where she’d bought it. You can, however, find them in larger health food stores and I bought a new packet in a shop in Ealing, West London. I’m sure that they’re better for you than Ranitidine. Next time I need one, I’m going to try grating raw ginger into it and seeing if that makes it act faster, or produces a stronger effect.

By the way, I forgot to programme my brain to wake me at a certain time, so having woken once in a sweat because I fell asleep under two duvets, then again at 5.26 am when the damned blackbird started, I finally surfaced properly at 9.10. Having taken no sleep aids whatsoever, not even alcohol, last night, this was a veritable miracle.