Shortly before the festive period, my parents won a large joint of beef in their local Conservative club Christmas draw. It was only second prize, but they deemed it preferable to the first prize of tinsel wrapped souls of the working class.
I had the honour of being present at my mater and pater’s residence during the December delivery of this beast. Despite them preparing me to witness the biggest arrival since an exhausted stork dropped off Dumbo, I was taken aback by the sheer scale of this frozen joint of beef.
Last time I saw that much ice was just prior to the Titanic sinking in the eponymously named movie. With this in mind, on viewing the frozen meat my cranial jukebox selected Celine Dion’s haunting celtic lament from the aforementioned movie….. Thankfully, the song didn’t stay in my head as long as it did the UK charts.
Due to the joints gargantuan proportions it couldn’t be carried home, so the local village farmer offered to drag it to their home by tractor. The final resting place for this monstrous comestible the cleared out house garage.
As this prize was donated by their local butcher, the meat will undoubtedly be a flavoursome centrepiece to a family Sunday dinner. We will require patience, though, as it’s not scheduled to defrost until Autumn 2019.
The quality of the meat from my mum and dad’s local butcher is superb. In fact they swear by their butcher Donald. He isn’t fond of the cursing but they’re good customers so he tolerates the off colour language.
I don’t know Donald’s surname, but I’d like to think it’s Wheresyourtroosers as in the comic song by the late Scottish singer Andy Stewart….. It probably isn’t though.
Karen and mine’s nearest butcher (not incorporated within a supermarket) is a couple of miles away. They are pricier cuts but, like Donald’s fare, the quality is generally superior.
My dad is very competitive and always claims his local butcher’s produce is a notch above ours. He was therefore surprised to view the recent proclamation on our butchers chalkboard advertising ‘Quality meat!….. Far better than the sh**e Donald dishes up!’…… It was me who wrote it, but it kept him quiet for a while.
Seriously, though, there is a friendly competitiveness with my dad as to whose local meat retailer usurps the other. All light hearted stuff to distract the family from current darker elements we are dealing with.
My pater is a thoroughly decent man who I’d go to the ends of the earth for. Witnessing his current poor health is a deeply saddening experience for our brood.
Although not enamoured with my writing, he took time recently to read one of my blogs. Sitting in his red leather reclining chair, he intently read all 800+ words of my 1970’s based nostalgic ramblings.
Hoping he’d enjoyed this rare exposure to my written work, I waited with bated breath for his literary critique as he handed my iPad back after completion of the read.
After a short period of reflection he broke his silence by telling me “I see the actor who played Father Mulcahy in the comedy MASH has died.”……. He must have absolutely bloody loved my art!
On an eerily quiet morning in chez Strachan, Karen is sat a few feet from me in a comfy chair reading her book. She opines it is informative, although feels questions remain about its integrity.
Perhaps buying her the Christmas gift of a hardback copy of Donald Trump’s 10 Favourite Burrito Recipes wasn’t such a good idea after all.
My little missus loves reading. A pastime that takes up much of her spare time, as she tenaciously attempts to broaden her literary horizons. To be honest she’ll read any old crap; which is why I generally let her review my blogs before I publish them.
Karen’s literary taste is fairly eclectic. As long as it has pictures in and doesn’t incorporate burrito recipes, she embraces most tomes in her possession.
Well, as I need to go pick up my car from the workshop, I best bring this inanity to a conclusion…… Incidentally, if you’re searching for new burrito recipes, I have a ‘like new’ book you can have.
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org