Avenue thing. Yes, finally, we've started the marathon viewing experience that is the three-series box set of 'Mad Men', courtesy of a 'loan' from my friend Mrs G.
There's little of interest in the evening television schedules at present, so we sat ourselves down last evening after supper and had an initial four-hour straight immersion in the world of 1960s advertising, with additional and heroic amounts of passive smoking, cocktail imbibing and casual misogyny. I had to remind myself, as LP Hartley wrote, that 'the past is a foreign country: they do things differently there', although I had similar experiences when I first went out to work in the 1970s and I'm sure, in some places, those sort of shenanigans still happen. Not the smoking these days, obviously, but back then I remember smoking at my desk AND when seeing clients; it was just the norm. But how wonderfully evocative is the series? The scripts are sharp, the characters believable and the set and clothes...oh, just...fabulous! Two and a half series to go and we are already addicted. Roger Sterling...mmmmmmm! That's me of course, not The Boy, in case you were wondering...
There's a horrid, raw chill in the air today; the sort of rawness that gets right into your bones and flays the skin from your cheeks, especially when riding a bike along the Promenade. But the shopping doesn't do itself, so off I went. I had both panniers full of stuff for the charity shop - I'm getting very, very good at this 'clearing out' lark now - and, following a serious wardrobe collapsing incident over the weekend, so is Himself. Our rule here, at the Anderson Shelter, is 'one thing in, one thing out' on all purchases. It concentrates the mind somewhat, when purchasing, because you have to not only consider the purchase, but also what you are going to 'let go' when you get the item home. Now, I'm good at this, but the Boy has had rather a lot of purchasing without letting go over the last few months and this led to a rather spectacular rail fail. I hung one feather-light and newly ironed shirt on the rail and the whole bloody lot fell down, knocking my rail completely off in the process. Cue swearing of magnitude, recriminations, huffing, stomping and other general sounds of annoyance. It's mended now, of course, as he's a fine DIYer is the Boy, and his rail is as pristine as a rail can be. All those 'slightly small' trousers and 'snuggish' shirts are gone, along with a bag of bric-a-brac, to be sold to benefit the orphans in Eastern Europe. My smugness knows no bounds.
And now, before another 'Mad Men' marathon, I'm off to the kitchen. There is a plethora of leftovers out there, just begging to be turned into some sort of supper dish - the home-made sausage and chestnut pastry roll might take a bit of incorporating into something edible, but the rest of it should do nicely. I have cold, stuffed turkey, basil, some passata and loads of veggies. Maybe... if I denude the sausage/chestnut roll, break it up and mix with chunks of turkey, make a sauce with the passata...hmmm...some sort of pasta bake, maybe...who knows? I also have cream and cream cheese...yes. A pasta bake is looking like a distinct possibility...
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