Nineteen: Home, Peckham

The venue: Home, Peckham

The Sunday dinner: Chicken

The price: 40p per head 

Let’s just acknowledge the beautiful weather we’ve had this weekend, before it becomes miserable and chilly again from tomorrow. That might have just been our summer, guys. I hope you made the most of it. I know I did, and I know I had a fun-filled week prior to that. Think I’m bullshitting? Join me as we have a quick meander through it, and then you’ll see, player haters. Oh, and I know it’s too warm for a Sunday dinner, but I had one anyway. 

On Monday I sort of cheated on Ripley. She was laid in the corner of the bedroom, looking all forlorn and unloved, and there I was, sprawled out in bed, ignoring that girl, yet ogling this guy:

Like him? Of course you do. I felt really guilty, but look at him. He’s adorable. If Ripley ever dies, which is very unlikely, I won’t be able to look at King Charles Cavaliers again without crying, so I’m just getting my fill now. A woman at work remarked how Ripley didn’t look 12, which made me glow with pride at her youthful complexion. She only uses Astral cream. None of your fancy stuff. I didn’t even feel hurt that my colleague failed to add that I didn’t look I was about to turn 42. Well, not until later in the week, when I decided to no longer respond promptly to any emails from her in future. What a bitch.

On Tuesday my Tesco shopping arrived – I’m boycotting Asda after my recent run-ins and I’m pleased to report I have no complaints. Well done, Tesco. Full of the joys of spring, I decided to decorate my freshly delivered eggs with a Sharpie. Not my ovarian ones, but these guys. I thought Mr Jus might enjoy them and, potentially, around 20 people on Facebook might do too.

Hitler’s on the far right, obviously, with Garry Bushell at the other end. I’m not sure who the other two are, but let’s say Paul Gadd (aka Glitter) and Liam Gallagher. I also don’t know if Sharpie can seep through the shell and poison a human, but I’m certainly not going to take the risk. Mr Jus will eat severely out of date yoghurt,  and me, once or twice a fortnight, if I’m lucky, so they won’t go to waste. 

You may know that I was once impregnated by Garry Bushell. He was my third celebrity dream pregnancy, after The Edge and Ronan Keating respectively. The rest of U2 were supportive when they heard the news, while I recall that Keith Duffy et al, were a bit pissed off that I was going to ruin a Boyzone European tour, which wasn’t the kind of stress I needed in my condition. 

Anyway, I decided to show Garry, and Tesco, my work AND my troubled mind. 

Yes, I know there’s a typo in my tweet – I was excited, FFS – but Garry was all over me like a parental-responsibility-shirking rash. We’ll see what the CSA has to say about it, mate. 

I went to bed feeling very pleased with my Bushell Bantz, but didn’t masturbate. 

On Wednesday I celebrated my birth. Mr Jus arranged a lovely day of activities and wrote a very sweet message in my card. I got a message from reception later in the day to say I’d had a delivery and my heart skipped a beat. It has finally happened, I thought, immediately jumping up from my desk. I’d been sent flowers. I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME. I was always envious of people it happened to, as I’d never received such a public accolade before. Skeletor once bought me a 67p pizza pocket from Tesco into work as a surprise, which was brilliant, to be fair, but not the same as receiving a floral tribute from your loved one.

I skipped down the stairs (took the lift – I’m not fucking Jessica Ennis) and collected my beautiful flowers. I can’t be arsed to describe tearing open the envelope in anticipation and excitement etc. So let’s cut to the chase – they were from Mr Jus’ parents. Not him. I was still delighted with them, of course, and I guess romance isn’t dead, but, you know. 

Thursday saw me ruminate for 18 minutes over whether I had anything more to say to Garry Bushell. I decided that I did. 

It sounded innocent, yet sinister. Like how a serial killer would attempt rapport, perhaps. A middle-aged serial killer who draws a TV critic on an egg and then sort of asks him for child support for her dream baby. She’d probably later invite him to be a Sunday Dinner Diaries guest and then murder him. I might ask him, you know. I won’t hurt him – he’s the father of my child – but it might be a laugh. I’ll pay. And look: 

Saucy. Even though I spelled his name incorrectly. What a guy. 

On Friday, Mr Jus and I verbally abused each other over social media:

We’re like Jack and Vera Duckworth for the WhatsApp generation. Mr Jus doesn’t know who they are, by the way, although he’s aware of a ‘northern soap opera’. At 7.30pm it was probably supper time, followed by violin practice and Bridge when he was a child. I would always watch Coro after a shift down pit.  I don’t know why we nastily snipe online, often while sat next to each other. I suppose we’re just a tech-savvy, modern, digital double act of a couple. Or just deeply unhappy. 

Friday also saw the arrival of my mum. I met her at Euston, resplendent in a khaki jumpsuit, headband and rucksack. I looked a fucking idiot. The bastard offspring of a zipless fuck between a Land Girl and a Ghostbuster, I came complete with proton pack. 

Mr Jus arrived home and began raving about Harry Styles’ new single, like the raging homosexual who I’m the beard for. And I do actually come with a beard, which makes things quite literal and therefore more authentic. 

My mum, channelling Brian Sewell, critiqued his art:

“You buy something like that, which is absolutely stunning and beautiful, yet you also buy that, which I think looks shit.”

Then she sided with him in various discussions and when the dumb shits lost to me at Scattergories. 

I had a grand day out with her on Saturday. We met Jus and Ripley in the park and drank beer in the sun and then he made us a delicious lamb tagine. I felt very loving towards him on Friday and Saturday night, despite still being slightly disappointed there was no tangible birthday gift. I’d have been happy with a compartmentalised plate. He knows I want one of those so I can feel like I’m in prison.

Sunday dinner was at home this week. And no, it’s not my best effort. Let’s remind ourselves:

This wouldn’t be my showcase Sunday dinner. It’s a half-arsed one. Mr Jus was out cycling and I was with my mum. It was still good though. Gravy – thick. The chicken was a bit dry, but you don’t need to know that. Rich, earthy spuddocks, fashioned in the style of a flood barrier, and no live jazz. Mr Jus said that the amount of pepper I later put on pointed to me being “borderline mentally disturbed”, like that’s the only sign out there. I know it’s wrong to write a review of my own food, because it’s not available to the general public. So to provide a consumer service,  let me tell you about these Twinings tea bags. 

They taste like the morning piss of Mr Kipling. Don’t bother. Crushingly disappointing. £2.69 up in flames. Which would take a long time, because coins don’t catch fire very easily. 

Mr Jus’ quote for today is as follows:

“I missed our Sunday dinner out and I hope that I get impregnated in a dream by Harry Styles.”

Final score: 24/33. Whatever. 

And finally, you should know how much I love the On This Day Facebook feature, for it reminds me how annoyingly attention-seeking I am as well as how quickly life is slipping away. Here’s my favourite from today, featuring two of my best friends. 

Toby has been out all day, which is unlike her, and it’s getting quite dark. I would like her to come home soon and feel a bit worried.


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