Goddammit, I’ve been sacked. Again.
This morning I received a rather peremptory e-mail from HR informing me that as I had contravened a number of company directives my contract had been terminated with immediate effect. The final warning that was issued to me earlier this month had gone unanswered, and therefore I was cut loose, cast off, and sent packing. Of course should I wish to appeal I could open the interestingly peculiar attachment to the e-mail and appeal against the decision.
Needless to say there was a heavy whiff of spam about the whole affair, not the least of which was the fact that the mail was signed by Quinn Schneekloth. What, the Quinn Schneekloth, I hear you ask? What a fantastic made-up name…if you’re going to try to ensnare unsuspecting victims in a viral scam then you may at least go the whole 9 yards and adopt the most preposterous name going. And as I had never heard of the company I was being fired from, I took the news of my demise quite calmly, really…
What do you mean, wrong type of Bond girl?
On the subject of unusual names I came across a wonderful suggestion for a Bond girl on some hand wash earlier (what is it with me and hand wash lately?). The flavour of hand wash in question was Geranium Goodness, and it just sounded to me like a 1960’s big-boobed stereotype being seduced by 007’s latest Q-powered sex gadget as the camera panned away to a tropical island paradise vista…
So I’m not going to waffle on at length this week, for a number of reasons. There’s a heck of a lot going on, but it’s all a bit swan-like right now – all serene on the surface whilst paddling like buggery under the waves. Markets are happening of course, and cooking is a staple of the week’s activities, but nothing earth-shattering has happened since my last missive. OK, John Cleese did pop along to the Chilli Hut at the weekend and buy Simon’s last Chocolate Habanero, but without the silly walk he just a customer, albeit a very tall one.
I’ve been to Sherston and Bristol’s Tobacco Factory, where the public were as always very pleasant, and the Pink Chilli Hobbit has been to Avebury, where the locals were largely sheep.
Christmas looms large on the horizon. Normally this fills me with humbug-style fear and loathing, but 2014 sees me looking forward to the busiest time of the year with a bizarre sense of anticipation. It’s going to be oh so busy, and I fully expect to be sick of the sight of our stuff by the time the festive season is over, but we’ll be looking to work ourselves into an exhausted stupor so that we can slump over our Christmas turkey with a sense of pride and achievement.
We have to cook a proverbial – actually, literal – shed-load of stock before then, so I’ll have to get my bottling mojo on soon. Jamie’s putting a schedule together which will allow us a few minutes between shifts to snatch a few Z’s…and somewhen before then we have a lot of chillies to pick. Sleep’s overrated, I’m being told.
I took a bit of time off last Friday to watch a bunch of thin blokes on wheels whizz by. The Tour of Britain wended it’s way through Devizes, so I took a walk up to Monument Hill, about a mile and a half from home, to watch the spectacle. It was all over in a flash, as the 100+ riders hoofed past at some considerable speed…even in two groups split by a couple of minutes it was all done and dusted in no time at all. I was really impressed by the organisation of it all th
ough…there were a huge number of bike cops speeding ahead of the peloton to stop traffic. When you think about the logistics of the event it’s amazing how well it all works, but blink and you’ll miss it – it’s all over so quickly (where have I heard that before?). Still, it was a nice walk, even if I did somehow manage to walk past the pub on the way home without stopping. Must…try…harder.
And you know what folks? That’s going to be it for this week, short and sharp. We have a busy week of cooking ahead, and you can find me in Reading and Gloucester peddling chilli goodness this weekend. The Pink Chilli Hobbit is running her own stall in Trowbridge on Wednesday which sells WCF stuff…and we’re out and about in Birmingham, Abergavenny, Clumber Park, Salisbury, Bath, Oxford and Tetbury as well. I’m not quite sure where I am on Sunday yet. Might be Swindon. Might be Tetbury. Might be giants. Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
Yellow, furry, and in my Mum’s garden
On the subject of creakiness I can confirm that I’m not cut out for a career at the front line of horticulture. I spent last Wednesday at the Farm helping with planting and other such deeply green-fingered activities, and even though it only a half days’ effort on my part I can safely say that I have not ached so much in a very long time. Despite being closer to the ground than most (a fact pointed out by Jamie before he was threatened with a broom-shaped enema) the mere act of repeatedly bending down to insert green things into brown stuff led to me later uttering the full range of old man noises…on getting up out of the chair…sitting down on the chair…getting into the car…out of the car…in fact, pretty much any movement at all. Kudos to the regular heavy lifters at the farm, Simon and Aaron, not sure how they do it. My late Dad, who often despaired of my total ineptitude in a gardening environment, must have been looking down on me from above, chuckling quietly to himself.
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The Chilli Hobbit 