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CHICCHANTAL
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The perils of fine dining

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Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Get home from work tonight, utterly ravenous. This is a good sign. It means (fanfare) I haven't fallen off the wagon today in any way, shape or form.

Hit the kitchen at a gallop, scattering assorted cats on the way. They should know better by now than to come between me and dinner.

Survey the contents of the fridge and various cupboards. I want quick, cheap and hot (yes we all know a couple of guys like that, please don't write in). Beanz on toast (sorry, cats) with cheese (even sorrier, cats. If you're not a regular and don't know why you'll just have to read through ALL my past blogs for the answer).

Shove bread on scales and then into toaster. Seize ringpull on can of beanz, yank assertively and . . . it's the revenge of the beanz.

Bean juice EVERYWHERE (except on the cats. Those moggies can move!). A tastefully spattered layer on the kitchen floor. Splodges on a small electrical appliance that got in the way (the more excitable of you must be imagining all KINDS of things but I must hasten to explain, it's only the electric mop thing I clean the floors with). Worst of all, bean juice in my hair, down my neck, on to my best silk underwear (no I'm not publishing details, what do you take me for?) and all over my nice new cardigan.

Argh. A few things are even more important than dinner. This is one. Dash to bathroom, remove clothes, wash neck and part of bosom, put on dressing gown, carry cardigan and silk underwear into kitchen, sling in washing machine.

Thank goodness for washing machines.

Fortunately, only two actual beanz went on the floor. I trod on one of them of course.

I think you'd now call it a (wait for it!)

has-bean.
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