Well Hello, Potential Audience

With my impending interview at Ruskin College Oxford for the part-time Creative Writing and Critical Practise degree course looming I nailed some boring domestic tasks early on and then intended to move into more serious pursuits like going through my in tray and clearing the simple things and writing a serious post. Un-bloody-likely. Though I woke up absolutely brimming with ideas I had no idea I’d end up hosting an ad-hoc male coffee morning.

My mate, who is a Senegalese immigrant to the UK and has the unlikely job of police officer, and I end up discussing the problems in Mali and the modern day roots going back to 1991, the arming of certain African states by – guess who – the Americans and the fact that many of the incumbent administrations have found that the way to get the Western powers interested and investing is to work an Al-Qaeda link into the mix of bad guys. We thrash out the problems and I end up lending him two DVD’s. He is also a Muslim and has had a glancing insight into the murky world of the war on terror by dint of a six-month attachment to a specialist counter-terrorism team. Nothing like a group where the bulk of folks haven’t really got an idea what they are doing and blunder round managing to cause more upset and division within the communities they are – allegedly – trying to bring on-side. Clint Eastwood had a word for it. That word was Cluster***k.

Then my brother rocks up ‘cos he is bored and has done his one work task for the day. Coffee made for him. He then starts showing more than a passing  interest in the sourdough bread I am baking. In the meantime he decides to have a swing on my RockRings (a strength development aid for climbing made by Metolius) and promptly breaks them. Huh? These are supposed to last a lifetime. Could have been v dodgy if one was fully committed in a hold and they had failed fast.

The policeman goes and eventually, when the bread is out of the oven, (that’s why he was hanging on)  dear brother departs with half a huge loaf of freshly baked bread having subtly delivered the innocent remark, “how will you and MFTS eat all that”?

It’s hard being a Domestic Goddess.

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