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One cool thing about me being a freelance writer and Claire not having to leave the house before noon every day is how we can sleep all day and do fun stuff all night. Like watching Sherlock until 5 in the morning. Sherlock Holmes is probably the only guy more popular on British Television than Adolf Hitler, so I've completely ignored this modern interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's novels until just recently, when I had to realize that there won't be any more Game of Thrones or Breaking Bad before next year. I like it. If you're familiar with the show, then I won't have to explain why I like it and if you haven't heard about it so far... well, you might wanna check it out.

Spelling and grammar in this particular entry might be a tad off, as the English section of my brain operates at only a very modest capacity when I don't get my usual 8-12 hours of sleep. A white van containing a bunch of assorted inconsiderate assholes has parked in front of our house at 8 o' fucking clock today. They parked a ladder in front of our bedroom window, which appears to be some kind of strange custom around these parts, as it must have been the third time this year they're doing this. This time, however, not only did I count the voices of three inconsiderate fucks, who were having a loud conversation right in front of our open bedroom window (curtains were open, wasn't very hard to figure out we were trying to sleep) - they've brought a fucking radio. I don't know what the hell is wrong with our roof and I don't particularly care to know, seeing as nobody even seems to be occupying the top floor right now. But the problem, whatever it may be, seems to require monthly visits, as well as throwing loose bricks onto the patio. Claire tells me it's about a leaky crack in the wall. I could have sworn I saw flying roof tiles, but after only 3 hours of sleep and her bony shoulder attacking my fucking front teeth whilst tossing and turning in a much too noisy bedroom, everything's gonna look like flying roof tiles.

Ahh yes, teeth. I can taste blood and breakfast coke this very moment.
I don't know what the proper procedure is when a bunch of assholes play loud music right in front of the bedroom window. Logic suggests the kicking of asses. Reason suggests they're gonna fix the fucking roof anyway, they've been paid to do so and radio or not - they're gonna make a whole lot of noise. Reason also suggests they're three hired cavemen, who lift heavy objects for a living and I'm too sleepy to remember which trouser leg I've stuffed my cock in. Which, of course, wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for these people outside my window, because I wouldn't be wearing any fucking clothes to begin with. And all delusions of grandeur and urge to show off in front of the missus aside - tasting blood and fearing for my teeth once this morning has been good enough.

Yesterday was fun. Claire's birthday. Wanna know what we did? Wanna know why her birthday was so fun? We went to the supermarket. I'm not even being sarcastic.
I don't celebrate mine. Sometime around my 15th or 16th birthday, my family just stopped giving a shit. And presents. So waking up a year older was as exciting as it got. But Claire's birthday is fun. There's always a pile of cards with cats on them. I have never seen so many cards in my life. Back in Germany, you do get a basic assortment of cards, which say happy birthday, get well, some guy died, that kinda thing. I don't believe that greeting cards are that basic and simple over here. Ever. They're more like rare items on Diablo. They get prefixes and suffixes. 'Happy belated birthday to you and your partner from your aunt and her dog!' I'm not actually making this up. There are greeting cards for every possible family member, pet, lover, gay relationship, what the hell ever.

What's more important than the impressive assortment of available greeting card messages and the cat pictures you've seen as internet memes a half decade ago, is what's on the inside: Money. I always look at that huge pile of money, smile, nod, pretend I didn't see anything and ask myself, "Why in the actual fuck do you refuse cards and gifts for your own birthday, you moron?"
The thing about birthday money is that you're supposed to have fun with it. It's not for regular grocery shopping or bills. And dear god, do we need to pay bills and buy groceries! Who the hell doesn't?

Sitting around on that pile of money, trying to figure out how to have fun with it, actually feeling burdened by the very idea we might not spend all that cash in a fun enough way, it turned out we're quite possibly the most boring couple on this whole island, certain sexual fetishes aside. Our first impulse was to go out. You know, hit the town, watch a movie, go grab a bite. Tell you what: Nottingham sucks. It's raining so much around here, we don't even need the bus anymore. We have a fucking canoe. And it turns out we don't actually care about movies. We didn't go watch The Avengers. We're not getting it on dvd when it comes out. I'm not even torrenting that shit. We. Don't. Give. A shit. About. The Avengers. Or Dredd. Or Prometheus. Most of all, we don't care to be surrounded by the local dipshits at the cinema. Wha'eva, do you know what I mean? GAH!

Then there's the matter of 'grabbing a bite'. Birthday. Can't just go to McDonald's for that when you're older than 7, can you? The problem about Restaurants in England is that they're in England. Don't get me wrong! If you're into Fish'n'Chips, England is the place to be. You can get a mountain of food for tiny amounts of money around here, there are more chip shops than people in Nottingham and they're all as fast as they are inexpensive. But that's not the sort of thing you'd want for a birthday dinner. Maybe a place with tables and metal cutlery. Possibly candles or a cheap, yet difficult to pronounce bottle of wine. And the main course is always followed by the same question: "Was it as good as my cooking?" And then we laugh.

I'm a 9th circle pastamancer. I had to learn how to cook when I was about twelve years old and my stepmother decided "to go on strike". That was her way of telling my old man she didn't appreciate having to do all the chores around the house. Because, you know, drinking beer and having no job is a whole lot of work and you can't possibly be asked to cook food for your kids every day. And since he was the one with the job and I was hungry, I had to get my ass in the kitchen and figure out how to turn raw plant and animal matter into edible meals. Eventually, the parents split and taking care of sustenance would become a regular thing.

Now, if you're somewhat familiar with my blog, you may have noticed that I don't usually have a mild interest in things. Either I obsess over something or I just don't give a fuck. Cooking falls into the former category. When I cook, I create art. I can fry something as simple and basic as a fucking hamburger and the thing will look like one of those fake, airbrushed plastic things you see on the photographs used in food chain advertisements. But my stuff is actually edible and tastes like food. It doesn't simply taste like good food, mind. It tastes like licking a fucking angel.
For the really good stuff I wear my Kempinski Hotel Cooking Academy apron. This is my badge of honour, my full body diploma, my Tier 16 dragonslayer raid armor. Nothing else. Just the apron. And unlike Jamie Oliver, I look like a man when I do.

The art doesn't stop there. I don't just provide oral satisfaction (WTF, brain?!) - my food itself creates art. This is where I would provide a picture of Claire's shapely tits, which, for obvious reasons, I cannot do. Actually, Claire wouldn't mind. I'm just not sure about the nudity rules around Blogspot. Or Claire's mother. So let's just say that a sight, which used to be nothing but ribcage and nipples has been turned into the most amazing set of boobs one could possibly imagine. Great food does that. Or large amounts of any kind of food, probably, but let me have this.

So we didn't go to the movies. We didn't eat at La mushy pasta or at Chéz dry chicken. We didn't order pizza. We went to Tesco. Fucking hilarious.
The whole thing was probably even more awesome for me than it was for her. Ever had one of those dreams as a kid, where somebody would give you a ton of money and tell you to buy whatever you want at the toy store? We did that. But with food. Buy the most awesome meat, no matter how expensive. All the fresh vegetables you want to work with. Herbs, spices, wine, go nuts!

Two hours and sixty Quid later, we had everything I needed for one kickass dinner. All the fresh meat, Danish bacon and vegetables I could carry. And a bottle of wine with a lizard on it. Claire is gonna take some of that stuff to work today. Not to eat it. To share. To show off. To show the world what I can do. Bards of future generations will sing songs about my cooking. Every drop of gravy they will taste from this day forth will have to measure up against my very own creation and fail miserably. Every single dinner, the very need to consume food, will turn into an endless, unavoidable chain of disappointments after this one, this incredible dish. I am the maker. I am the alpha and the omega. I don't fucking cook for fun. This is what I do. This is who I am. I am pleased.

On an unrelated note, I'm really enjoying those pills.

-Cat