Short Stories: A Potentially Very Unattractive Death

Last night, I found out what happens when you take a laxative about twenty minutes before you realise you have food poisoning.

I'll let that set the scene without going into graphic detail, shall I?

I spent about an hour and a half in the bathroom, with a fierce fever and struggling to keep breathing, trying not to completely pass out, and being vaguely astounded that I still had a sense of humour (I was contemplating how typical it would be for me to go out like Elvis Presley, and how if it were up to me I'd have chosen a more dignified parting). Even after all that time in there and once I started to at very least not feel like I may be about to die, it took every last ounce of strength I had to sort myself out, force some water down to rehydrate myself and get into bed (of course even this couldn't happen normally- as my right leg had gone to sleep I had to stumble-hop the whole way- which is not a nice thing to have to do when you still feel sick to your stomach).

I can only put the whole incident down to very, very bad timing and quite bad luck. Thankfully I'm a lot better today, but my stomach is still making some very forbidding sounds.

More Potential Unwanted Attention

Today I have decided that either I need a new job in another location, or possibly a face transplant. Or I just have to go out at lunchtime with other colleagues, or don some sort of disguise. Here's why.

One day I was walking down the street from work at lunch time when I walked past this guy going in the opposite direction, and sort of noticed in my peripheral vision that he had sort of stopped and was dithering a bit. Feeling sort of nervous (because I was about to stop by the cash machine) but knowing I was just being a bit paranoid, I squared up a bit and made myself alert, but carried on with what I was doing.

He'd vanished when I'd got to the cash machine, at which point I relaxed a bit- but as soon as I was done and walking away from the cash machine, he appeared out of nowhere and approached me. I needn't have worried though as he turned out to be nice enough (and probably hung back on purpose when I went to the cash machine so I wouldn't freak out too much, now that I think about it).

"Sorry to bother you, but do you work at the head offices up the road?" He asked. I blinked, and mentally kicked myself into friendly social mode, smiling.

"Yes that's right, at _____. Why d'you ask?"

"Oh, I have a friend that works there, I wonder if you know him?"

And so we got talking. It turns out he lives locally and actually works at one of the shops I sometimes go to at lunch time, and I've been bumping into him on the street or in those shops since.

I'm no egotist- in fact I still have a little bit of 'ex fat girl' syndrome, where I can't believe anyone would look twice at me. On the other hand, no-one approaches a stranger in the street just like that without having an ulterior motive (harmless or no), so I made sure I remained politely friendly and pleasant but not overly so during our encounters.

Recently though I've not been going out as much as I've had a lot to get through, so I've been staying in to work at lunch. Today I allowed myself a trip out to stretch my legs, and I bumped into him again- so we chatted for a bit. After a little while he paused and suddenly said, all confidence,

"I don't want to keep you, you're obviously really busy, but you know I wouldn't mind giving you my number if you wanted. I'd like to talk to you more often."

My brain broke a bit. Between my trying hard not to get in this situation in the first place, being asked out just a little while back by someone else and being pretty sure the usual request is to have the girl's number rather than offering it- although maybe the other way round is actually better, I was inwardly flummoxed. Thankfully outwardly I didn't show any of my inner turmoil.

My brain scrambled into action, learning from the last time to be respectful but to the point.

"You know, I'd really like that, as friends. Just so you know and so I'm not messing you about or anything, I'm not really interested in being in a relationship right now."

He nodded earnestly. "Sure, as friends."

And then, meaning to further solidify my stance, I put my foot in it.

"Yeah, I'm sort of recently out of a relationship..."

His face lit up a bit. "Really?"

DAMMIT! Crush his hopes and dreams Tash, crush them now!

"Er, anyway, look me up on Facebook, I'm on it as unhealthily regularly as everyone," I flustered.

As he cheerily waved me on my way, I got halfway down the road before I- I'm invisible on Facebook. The poor guy's going to think I gave him a dud name or something.

And that is why I'm going to have to change jobs or get a face transplant.

~Fin~

Afterword: That's the second time I've rebuffed someone in the last two months. I may need to take a good look at myself and find out if it really is because I'm too busy enjoying the single life (which I know at least is definitely partially true), or if I've developed a few trust issues from the last relationshipbomb. Oh dear.

To be continued?

My Special Day

I've had quite a mixed bag sort of day- it'll work far better if I just bullet point this one or it'll be an even bigger mess.

Part 1: The Morning

• Slip on unmopped patch of water when checking on baking muffins

• Drop half the muffins in the oven whilst slipping 

• Successfully return now slightly misshapen muffins to pan but burn myself in the process 

• Scald self trying to run cold water over burn because the last person to use the tap apparently ran it hot and there was still hot water in the faucet

•  Leave house an hour too early after mis-reading the clock (but not yet realising it)

Part 2: Late Morning/ Early Afternoon

• Text friend that I've arrived, only to receive a confused call asking if we were meant to be meeting an hour later- I realise my watch has probably stopped since midnight the night before to make it look like the right time, I've only just noticed this at this moment, AND I must have left an hour early on top of this 

• Go into Starbucks to wait for friend and don't realise that it's now become policy in the UK to call names out instead of order type

• Fail to recognise and respond to a repeated weird pronunciation of my name at the collection point ('Taaarsh' instead of 'Tash' like 'ash') whilst wondering what kind of coffee a tarsh was

• Only realise it's my name that's being called when the lady behind me pokes me politely and respond reflexively by flinging my arm up in the air and shouting "ooh, that's me!", causing Starbucks to go quiet for a few moments

• Choose a hot coffee and end up sitting by the window where the sun bakes me in my own skin whilst at first having no other table options, then feeling too awkward to poach someone else's table when they move, deciding I'd already made myself too conspicuous (and had a proper mug so I could go and take my coffee with me)

• Attempt to browse the new Primark without getting mauled by bargain hunters (I could just leave this bullet point as it is) and witness a woman with a load of clothes on hangers draped over her arms whilst wailing to her friend "this is what my life has become!!"

• Get out of Primark in one piece to meet aforementioned friend and have a beautiful lunch at Mildred's (a popular vegetarian restaurant in Soho), try not to eat all the cakes in the West End and think that the day is finally turning into a more genteel one

Late Afternoon/ Evening

• On the way to the Cake & Bake Show 2012, witness a lady walking the two biggest kitty cats I've ever seen down the street. Without a leash.

~Fin~

Baking Mad: My First Cakewreck

Take a moment, if you will, to look at the pretty and tasty things I bake.

Now look at this.

What is this I don't even

LOOK AT IT.

This... this... thing is everything a cake shouldn't be. It's heavy, it's got the texture of wallpaper paste and it's so sweet it gives you cavities by just smelling it.

This is- or was intended to be- a honey cake.

Now I've made honey cake many, many times before, always using the same recipe I've adapted from numerous cook books. A simple, light, fluffy and subtly but distinctively honeyed confection with floral undertones and a hint of citrus, baked in a loaf tin and eaten plain with a cup of tea.

This time, however, I decided to be different, and try someone else's recipe.

My first, and possibly most key mistake out of seven mistakes, was to use an American one.

Honey is sweet, right? So you'd think it'd register in my mind that it was a little off that this recipe I found from the internet (possibly the second mistake) called for a cup of honey, a cup and a half of white sugar, and another cup of brown sugar. Actually yes, it did register- but the reviews had nothing but good things to say about the flavour of this cake, and I've been trying to get out of the habit of second-guessing and altering any recipe I come across- so I decided to roll with it.

My third mistake then, was to not listen to my gut instincts, and just alter the damned recipe.

My fourth mistake was to follow the additional advice at the end of the recipe and make it into a frosted layer cake. It told me to make a cream cheese frosting, because the tanginess of the cheese would allegedly create a foil for the sweetness of the cake. This made sense, I thought, because the Russian honey layer cake medovik does use a sour cream filling. So I made their cream cheese frosting.

My fifth mistake was seeing all of that icing sugar going into the frosting, and frosting the cake with it instead of sticking it straight where it belonged: in the bin.

Now back to the cake itself: when it came out of the oven (after I had tested it with the prodding test and poking test as usual), it was springy and smelled great. I tested a little bit that was sticking out- it seemed okay. I only realised things were starting to go terribly wrong when the cake had cooled and the springiness that it had when it was fresh out of the oven had disappeared. Then I cut it into layers.

Mistake number six: seeing the glue-like insides and not putting it all in the same place I should have put the cream cheese frosting. Instead, bravely optimistic, I put the whole lot together, sliced it, and tried it.

My god, it was the most awful thing I've ever tasted that has ever come out of my oven. As I had feared, it was tooth-achingly sweet and its glue-like texture turned to cement in the stomach. Disgusted, particularly with the frosting, I picked the layers apart and scraped the horrible stuff, at long last chucking it away. Would that make it any better? The cake was still like glue, despite it having come out of the oven apparently perfectly baked. I didn't want to waste it- what on Earth could I do?

My final mistake:I put it in the microwave, in the mad hope it would make it fluffy like a steamed pudding. It didn't. It just sort of... melted.

The wretched thing is still sitting on the counter in the kitchen, although I have admitted defeat now. I don't want to throw it away, but I just cannot think of anything to do with this foul creation. I've been considering the various way you could murder someone with it, since it's so heavy- drop it from a high building, put it in a bag and beat someone with it, blend it into a smoothie and force feed someone the whole lot... but I've definitely learned to listen to the instinct I've gained from years of baking experience.

Tash's Running Delivery Service

Studio Ghibli and anime fans may know a film called Kiki's Flying Delivery service.

A couple of weeks ago I was up bright and early for my morning weekend run, dressing in my Lycra running gear and kitted out with my sports watch and mp3 player strapped to my forearm. Just before I stepped out, mum (who happens to also get up early) collared me.

"Ah, Tash. I was going to pop out to the baker's to get some bread rolls for the week, but since you're going out, I was wondering if you'd run down there and get some for me?"

I considered this for a moment.

"So you want me to run there, in all my Lycra glory, straight into the shop, beet-red in the face and sweating like a pig, and run back with a bag full of rolls?"

"Yes, please."

"... Okay."

It's a mile to Mill Hill Broadway (well, 1.1miles) one way, which is just over half of my normal running circuit around my area, so I was quite happy to do it in terms of getting my usual workout. I was, perhaps, a little less happy to be running through a busy high street and into a quaint little shop where less-than-unusual things tend to happen for the poor unsuspecting owners, but I've never been one to give a fig about what people think (or so I try and tell myself).

Now, my face turns maroon (yes, maroon. Not red. Maroon.) at any sign of physical exertion. I don't have to be out of breath or the least bit tired, my face goes maroon, which is a terrible pity because it makes me look a great deal less fit than I actually am. Anyway, I'd only just managed to run my first mile non-stop a few days before, so I was glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water by the time I entered the shop.

Did I mention it had started to rain halfway through my run? It had started to rain halfway through my run. (So I was also quite damp.)

The owner watched me apprehensively behind the counter as I picked up a pair of tongs and began filling a bag with rolls, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible (an impressive feat, I think, whilst glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water). When I went to pay for the rolls, he gingerly dropped the change in the palm of my hand whilst leaning backwards, as if afraid I'd detonate like a bomb if he wasn't careful. I smiled as charmingly as I could whilst gasping for air, and made my way back home, clutching the bag of bread rolls to my chest to protect them from the rain whilst hoping passers by wouldn't think I'd stolen them from the bakery.

Last weekend, however: progress. I was a little less out of breath from my run since I'd improved during the week (if, alas, no less maroon), and managed to get a nervous smile from the owner when I handed the money over. I've decided that this is quite fun, and I'll try to do it every week. Who knows? Maybe in a few weeks' time the shops will decide my escapades are quite useful in a novel way and I'll become Tash's Running Delivery Service!

~Fin~

Short Story: A Domesticated Disney Moment

This morning the sun was (briefly) shining, I had the house to myself and I was feeling pretty kickass after a morning run, so to make my unusually quiet day even more awesome I decided to do one of the things I like doing best: bake.

I had a pretty summer dress on, and was swanning about barefoot on the just-mopped kitchen tiles. I donned my apron, cracked out my mixing bowl and wooden spoon and got to work. At some point in the process, I started to sing. So here I was, mixing bowl in the crook of my arm, stirring away with my wooden spoon and singing in my dress and apron and bare feet, when I turned around.

My two cats, both of whom at best only seem to tolerate each other and are seldom seen in the same room together, were sitting side-by-side in the middle of the kitchen, close enough for their whiskers to touch, watching me.

My face split into a smile at the sight- how lovely to see the two so close together! I turned around to continue my work, very pleased with how my quiet Sunday was turning out, when I glanced out of the glass doors and into the garden.

The smile on my face froze in disbelief.

Outside in my previously-empty little garden were about a dozen birds of various varieties, on the lawn, fence and bushes.

It was sheer coincidence that a load of birds gathered in my garden for no apparent reason while I danced and flounced and baked, and it probably was the sound of me singing that summoned my cats (whether I was any good or not!), but I'd like to believe I have magical Disney Princess powers anyway.

~Fin~