Sunday morning started off badly when, much to my chagrin, a visit to the pantry highlighted that casa Strachan was bereft of Marmite supplies. Tardiness and lethargy, which yesterday ran through my every vein, resulting in me forgetting on Saturday morning I’d used the last of of my usual toast accompaniment.
Consequently, instead of my preferred choice of savoury Vegemite spread, today’s grilled bread’s suitor was an overly sweet tasting raspberry conserve.
When I speak of my love for Marmite, lots of people exhibit a disapproving grimace, generally followed by comments like “Ewwww!”, “I hate it!” and “I’ve no idea what it tastes like, I can never get that blooming yellow lid off!”
Personally, I’d say hate is too strong a word when expressing the extent of disliking a food product. Surely, that emotion should be saved for evil people/deeds, not a savoury spread whose only crime is offending your taste buds…… Well, shouldn’t it?!
Some could argue I’m a hypocrite. An attention seeker unnecessarily ramping up the drama of this narrative, painting a picture that being bereft of Marmite is a big deal. “How can a man whose wife’s been fighting incurable cancer for nearly eight years get het up over something as insignificant as Marmitegate?”, I hear you cry.
Of course, I’m not anywhere near as traumatised by this Vegemite void as I portray. The angst is exaggerated in an attempt to add a whimsical angle to the narrative. As highlighted in the paragraph above, I’ve got far ‘bigger fish to fry’ than being genuinely stressed over an enforced compromise over breakfast ingredients.
To be honest, I’m philosophical about the whole incident. Admittedly my OCD took a hit at the upsetting of the breakfast status quo, however eating a sweeter toast topping today won’t kill me…… Unless, of course, my wife Karen has infused the conserve with strychnine; something she promised not to repeat following last year’s incident with the postman!
I best move on swiftly as I’ve probably said too much!………
For about six hours today I assisted my son Jonny and his mate Phil decorate. Our domain of sartorial enhancement the living room of a house my son and heir has just purchased with his fiancee Jenny.
In his late 20’s, like my son, I’ve known Phil since he was knee high to a grasshopper. However, as he now stands at about 6’4″ tall that size comparison no longer accurately the affable lad’s height….. Unless of course he meets a 20 ft grasshopper, which I’d venture as unlikely.
The two lads and me put in a decent shift for a good few hours. More or less finishing the revamp of the room at the conclusion of our days labour. Jonny’s buddy unequivocally answering yesterday’s tongue-in-cheek question to my boy of “Can Phil decorate?”
“Well he decorated his own house in South Milford, dad!” came my son and heir’s response.
“That doesn’t tell you much!…. Mr Bean did his own domestic glossing and emulsion work!” I jokingly countered.
We’d no need to worry, though, as Phil proved to be an accomplished exponent of the brush and roller, with the added bonus of not even needing stepladders for the ceiling work……. Consequently, we avoided a situation like the one below!…..