Sunday 1st November 2020

What is the point of calendars in 2020? I mean, each month is pretty much blank as you can't plan for anything.

I say that as I failed to notice the new month, and John turned it over for us, and remarked that there was no point in making any appointments.

He's not wrong.

To make matters worse, I ordered new calendars for the new year last week, at least they have pretty pictures for me to stare at when I cook.

I have been planning on going for a haircut for a couple of weekends, but the impending lockdown meant I had to go Sunday.

It was raining.

Again.

I had planned to go an look for a long-lost church. I mean, who loses a church? Well, we can in Dover. But a friend found a marker stone in the middle of a field, and I was going to look for it this morning. BUt the rain came down twice as hard, and it seemed mad to do it, the stone isn't going anywhere, so I will go another time.

Perhaps.

I sit and stare at the rain running down the windows before going out at quarter to nine, so to be at the barbers when the door opened.

THere was hardly any traffic about again, I drive up the A20 through Dover and out towards Folkestone with very little other traffic about.

I parked near the top of the old High Street, and waited until twenty past nine when I would walk to the shop, pausing just to take a couple of shots of the cobblestones of the Old High Street in the rain.

The shop was already open, but just one barber in, so I wait in my mask, looking at my refelection staring back.

I am shown into an empty chair, and be shearing begun. It took about 40 minutes, and looked and felt fine. Would do for four weeks at least.

I pay the guy double and let them be, walk down the new High Street, back to the car and drive straight home, even though the rain had stopped. Because of the meat.

I bought a huge hunk of beef doe dinner, as I had invited Jen, John and Sylv to dinner Sunday lunchtime, and splashed out as the prime rib was on offer. I took a full 5 rib joint.

I weighed it before going out that morning, our scales go up to 9 pounds, this went at least three pounds over. I worked out whilst sitting in the barner's chair that I would need to cook it for three hours at least, and as John said he had to eat before two, it meant getting back home quick to prepare the joint and put it in to cook.

I did it, and all being well would be ready about ten past two.

I prepared the vegetables, mixed the batter pudding and boiled the potatoes.

At one Jools went to pick the others up, I carried on cooking, and treated myself to a small glass of beer, though that wasn't the reason for what happened once the meat was cooked.

I needed to transfer the cooked meat to another tray so I could make gravy with the juices. I prepared the second tin, and got the hot tin with meat, out and put it on the stove. I had a carving fork and a normal one, one each side, and lifted up the meat to move it the foot to the left into the other tin.

In a fraction of a second, the meat slipped on the larger fork, catching the edge of the hot tin.

This lifted up, until it caught the sunderneath of my arm. Flesh sizzled.

Meanwhile, the hot fat was thrown into the air and onto the front of my trousers. They were loose enough so that no fat touched my leg, but some did rin down, soak into my slippers and onto my foot, burning my big toe.

OWWWW.

Fuck.

I shouted.

I looked and saw the cooker, coated in red hot fat, dripping to the floor, and on the floor, a large buddle was forming. Half the fat stayed in the pan, so gravy was still possible, but I had Yorkshires to put in the cooker, roast potatoes to cook and do the gravy.

And clear up.

I put the puddings in, and the spuds, and was clearing up when Jools came back. And she helped.

As things returned to normal, I made the gravy, and finally carved the meat as it all came together perfectly.

Jools opened the wine, I carved and dished up, and it was great.

And dinner was amazing, the beef perfectly pink, and everything cooked and crispy, well, apart from the steamed vegetables.

We eat well, we drink well. We toast Betty.

We retire to the sofa and spend a couple of hours talking about all sorts. I put on the Man Utd v Arsenal game on silent in the background, and we are entertained by all our senses.

Jools takes them back to Whitfield at half seven, the whole day was just about gone. When she comes back, I make a brew and I write, but I am done.