Piscean genocide

The stiff, lifeless bodies of two of the five new goldfish have been unceremoniously disposed of in the traditional manner. I think my optimism re: miraculous recovery following better living conditions was misplaced.

The mussels seem fine. They seem able to move a long old way under their own steam, and are often in surprisingly remote corners of the tank.

I have just had to cry off a meal with friends at the Balti House on health grounds. My abdomen has been painful for the last week, and my jaw for even longer, and I just didn’t think one of their traditional enormous curries would help terribly much. Instead, I made some sort of Greek potato stew, improvising from a recipe found on cix:/gourmet — sliced, sauteed potatoes laid thinly across the bottom of a dish, covered in a sauce made from onion, garlic, tomatoes, olives, red wine and chilli, and baked for an hour. I didn’t quite cook it for long enough, so the onion was still a bit too crunchy. I ate it with home-made bread and home-brewed beer and felt very virtuous. I can manage more healthy eating like this.

The onions were from that nice grocery called Sheikh, where the fabulously priced oranges come from. Onions are no more expensive–there ought to be a sign that says, “Sheikh, for people who like onions.” A huge gert multi-kilo bag that was tricky lug home for only two-fifty. Spectactular. I made onion soup to celebrate, and will serve it to my parents when they visit later in the week.

Over in Ambridge, I’m convinced that Jill Archer is an evil witch, despite the placid exteriour. The way yesterday she asked whether Ruth’s cough (was it TB? Secondary cancers? Mammoth red herring?) was starting to get better–the clear implication was that she’d taken the pins out of the Ruth-Archer wax doll concealed in a dresser-drawer in the Bungalow. Today, the R4 announcer told us “Kenton Archer is helping the children look for firewood for bonfire night; what could possibly go wrong?” What indeed.

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