The Sunday dinner: Curry buffet
The price: £8.95
Welcome to my Spooooky Sunday Dinner Diary. Even though it’s still not Halloween. I’m too ill and old to celebrate this year, but in 2016, Mr Jus and I dressed up as the twins from The Shining. Look.
We thought we were so clever and original. Until we bumped into these guys, that is.
I’m sticking to my new theme of first covering four key topics: beauty, fashion, travel and relationships, before culminating in culinary commentary. Realising I’m an expert in these fields, as well as strategic leadership and spelling, means there’s so much more I can teach you. And should.
I started these reviews almost a year ago now. I wanted to cheer you up on a Sunday evening with sorry tales from my uninspiring life and diet. Make you forget that it’s almost time for work again. Although in writing that last sentence, I’ve made you remember. And to think how excited we all felt about that extra hour this morning. Where is it now, eh? It’s counted for fuck all in the scheme of things. We’re all back here again. Alarms set. Hopes, dreams and aspirations quashed. Or are they? Not after you’ve read this week’s advice and guidance. Let’s start with beauty and wellbeing…
BE THE SALT OF THE EARTH
If, like me, you’re a grafter and an all-round twat, you may decide to decorate a bedroom when you feel ill and set yourself the challenge of doing everything before dusk. Sort of like a reverse vampire. This includes moving all the furniture back on your own, like a weak, but still bearded, Geoff Capes. I had a great time – rupturing my spleen and ruining all my limbs, bones, muscle tissue and a top from Zara in the process.
I managed to cover myself liberally in both emulsion and gloss – I don’t discriminate – which seeped into my skin. It tingled and I started to worry it’d get into my bloodstream and I’d die from paint poisoning. Then I worried that Mr Jus would see the splashes of paint on the carpet and throw a massive fit.
It was all very stressful and not fun. I would not recommend DIY to anyone. It’s laborious, too physical and doesn’t go well with drinking, like eating in restaurants and unprotected sex with strangers does. Simarlily, the results of your hard work aren’t that rewarding either, especially if you don’t do the required preparatory work, rush the job, and think ‘FUCK IT’ rather than rectify mistakes.
Still, I got it done, which saved Mr Jus having to help out. He’s been very busy in his new job. Yes, I give him two hours of business leadership coaching, strategic communication advice, employee engagement ideas, and stakeholder management advice every fucking night of the week, but I wanted to do more. Something physically demanding.
Thankfully, he reassured me: “You’ve done good, Westie” and gave me a hug when he inspected my work. I know he noticed I’d taken my trademark slapdash approach, and clocked the drips and patches everywhere, but he didn’t lose his shit over it. Or hit me, like he usually does.
Needless to say, I felt rough today. So much like shit, I wrote a rap about it.
I spit rhymes from time to times,
But I guess you didn’t knows that
Well bros and hos – it’s fact.
I really ached when I waked today,
But I guess you didn’t see me,
Or hear how my struggle be.
Ask about my main pain destination
Why it’s shoulder blade location.
There’s no offence to be taken,
But they’re tight, tense and achin’
Erm, that’s about it. My shoulders hurt. Before you say I sound like a dick, let it be known that I know all the words to Ice, Ice Baby and saw eighteen minutes of Straight Outta Compton on the plane back from Crete, so I know what I’m doing. Perhaps it’s you that doesn’t get rap music. Think about it.
Pain seared through my battered body, but I battled on with housework and chuntering today. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but I could feel my life ebbing away.
“You look exhausted, sweetheart. You should stop all this and go have a lovely long soak. Relax and unwind,” said nobody, because I don’t get the fucking gratitude and attention I truly deserve for all the work I do.
I decided to take a bath anyway. Mainly so I could review Tisserand De-Stress Bath Salts.
Here I am ‘AFTER’.
Look at my panda eyes and spots and blemishes. I tried several filters and not one made things look any better. Not even ‘transfer’. Yet I still bravely published it. See? I’m just like you. I may appear to be the epitome of unattainable perfection and an ambassador/role model for women, but hey – I want you to know that I’m real. I don’t wake up looking polished and glamorous. I’m sometimes as much of an absolute state as you.
Also look how I’ve made a half-arsed attempt to peel the price sticker off. So that visitors think it’s maybe £50 a bag from Liberty, rather than £5.99 from TK Maxx. At that price – a 500% increase on that Radox bath soak stuff when it’s on offer at Tesco – I was banking on a revived soul and replenished tendons. But did it work? I look pleased enough, don’t I?
Don’t be fooled. I’d paggered back half a bottle of my £10 M&S meal deal wine before I got in the tepid water, so I was already a good way down Relaxation Road.
The aroma was akin to a medicated mulled wine, but that could quite as easily have been my breath, albeit missing the boiled egg element (my breakfast). But it was indeed the bath that was being nice to my nose in a sensory manner. Which was pleasant, because God wasn’t so kind to me aesthetically the nasal arena.
Guess what? I felt so relaxed that I didn’t have the energy to think anxious thoughts, or wash my vagina. But what’s the point in doing that anyway, these days? It’s rarely used.
In terms of a rating, let’s just say that I felt better than I did before using the bath salts. Not cured of my ill behaviour (another rap reference for you), but I accept Tisserand, who I’ve never heard of, didn’t promise me that.
There are bits of grit in the bottom of the bath, which I find moderately annoying, but there is a lasting aromatherapy odour that may well have kept me calm today. My money is on it being the wine though, which I finished off. They say you should always rehydrate. They probably mean water, but that doesn’t get you pissed, so I suggest skipping straight to the hard stuff. It’ll de-stress you quicker.
Final score: 24/33
DON’T BE AFRAID TO DIS-GUSSET
It’s time for the fashion section. Earlier this week, I heard a crinkling sound when I took off my tights. At first I thought it was a carrier bag, which would have been weird enough, but it turns out I had the whole of Autumn in my gusset: Don’t know how they got there. Or why I didn’t notice. Can’t recall someone shoving a handful down there when I was in the playground. Unable to remember having sex, or a shit, in a forest.
I wondered if I might be morphing into a wood nymph. I looked them up. They’re quite ethereal with generally bouyant tits and long wavy hair. So that would be ok. But it’s more likely that I’m just a female Stig Of The Dump/Worzel Gummidge character.
This isn’t really a fashion advice section – I just want to know how a slack handful of leaves ended up in my tights. Let me know.
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED…
It’s time for the travel section. I haven’t been anywhere. These topics aren’t working, are they?
I DID NOT HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH THAT WOMAN…
Hopefully, I’ll have something more to say about relationships. And I do. This week, I made a list of things that lost Mr Jus points in The Relationship Game. I don’t usually keep a rigid scoring system, but am contemplating introducing one. So he can see how he’s faring. Maybe you should too. Then, on Sunday evenings, after thoroughly enjoying this blog, you can discuss what has pissed you off about each other during the week. You could even share details of what the other person did that pleased you over the preceding seven day period. However, the latter won’t cause arguments, so where’s the fun in that? Here are the top five things Mr Jus lost marks for this week:
- He gave me three prawns from the Hello Fresh meal, when I know he had five or six.
- I caught him smiling at something Phil Jupitis said. THREE TIMES.
- We had sex, but it lasted no longer than the opening credits to First Dates. To be fair, maybe the first person walked into the restaurant and ordered a drink from Merlin before it ended, but it was DEFINITELY no longer than that.
- He repeatedly struggled to spell ‘recipe’ and is not dyslexic.
- He used the word ‘feck’ in a Facebook post.
They might all be examples from the same day. I don’t recall. And yes, I sound mean, but he knows I’m only joking. And, as I’m contractually obliged to temper my acidity with sweetness, I’ll add that he has made me laugh lots this week and stopped me sending a work email when I was drunk. And for those things, I applaud him. Thank you, my Jus. I love you.
We’ve left the weak gravy behind this week to enjoy a different kind of gravy: curry juice. We went to Curry Cabin in East Dulwich to sample an all you can eat buffet. For just £8.95. What’s not to like about the previous two sentences? Nothing. Here’s are two of the three plates I devoured.
Without wanting to sound disrespectful, it’s basically plate upon plate of slop. But tasty slop. Thick, spicy, gravy slop. And plenty of choice. Lamb madras, chicken korma and bhuna. Plus three other curries I failed to make a note of. But they were there. Plus Bombay potatoes and dahl. Tandoori chicken, onion pakora, a bit of salad, and cheeky nans too. It was of decent Indian takeaway descent and only 50% of it was tepid. But that was fine. I was drunk enough not to care too much. The meat was tender and tasty.
And at £8.95, you can’t complain, even if you’re sober. It was the taste and price of a regulation takeaway, but you got to try several things, time and time again, and sat at a table that was clothed, which is always nice.
Yes, the carpet in there was shit, but I didn’t go out to munch on that.
But did Mr Jus enjoy it? Let’s have a look…
Oh dear. He ate too much. And now look. I feel really full, but he’s clearly in a bad way. Look how he moved from a position of pain, to a trapped wind expelling manoeuvre, to deep slumber. All within around six minutes. He’s quite literally SLIPPED INTO A KORMA. He’s gone upstairs for a rest now.
We can’t blame Curry Cabin for this. It’s his own fault. Yes, he’s clearly going to be useless for the rest of the evening, but he did make me cry with laughter during today’s Sunday dinner. So that was nice. I hope you’ve laughed this weekend too.
Final score: 26/33