Fudz

The problem with preparing the boys' suppers alongside my own: I oh so nearly found myself adding gushyfudz to the mashed potato, along with parsley and butter and so forth...

I don't think I would have enjoyed that. I'm fairly sure the boys would. I am absolutely certain that they would have had the chance to find out. If there were a webcam in this machine, I could show you the very image of disappointed boys trying to steal my sossidge in lieu.

It's not quite a boast, but I think I may just have created the smallest portion of mashed potato known in these islands. I'm still good on nibbles-at-the-machine (vide sossidge), and cooking is still a pleasure, but actual eating is something of a problem for me just now. So, yup. Teeny-tiny portion of bulk, to go with the experimental ham in the slow cooker. (This may be the best idea ever. Okay, it's a smoked gammon joint rather than an actual ham, even I don't have a slow cooker that large; but I chopped a couple of russet apples to give it a base to sit on and a bit of steam, a bit of appley flavour; then I just dropped in the joint and put on the lid and left it. I reckon after eight hours or so, I should have a cooked ham. If I'm right, this is just so much easier than simmering same. Even if I don't get the stock for soup. Am tired of soup. I know that's heresy but I ... have been confronted with a lot of soup, these last days. See above, under eating-being-a-problem. Soup is easy. It can come in mugs, and be slurruped.)

In other news:

I told you, I am sick and tired of revision.

I had only just embarked on the umpteenth revision of the new novel when back came a short story for revision, with editors' notes all over it. These are the kinds of editors who edit word by word, and have apparently taken a hate against the word "it".

So first I went through and responded to all their notes & comments, word by word; and then I went through the story on my own account, marking up my own revisions, because I hadn't actually been able to read it first time through, because Word-style comments just interrupt any attempt at actual reading; and now I've been trying to get all my own changes marked up, but I've been at it an hour and a half and I've only done ten pages and there are eighteen to go and I'm not going to finish tonight so fuck it. Stopping now. Am going downstairs, to have Big Drink and hate the world. And I would write a story called "It", only I get the feeling that's already been done.