2-3 cloves of garlic
10 fluid ounces of plain yoghurt
4 chicken breasts
2 teaspoons garam masala
1 teaspoon paprika
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon chilli powder
1/2 teaspoon dry mustard powder
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
Cut slashes into the chicken breasts taking care not to go all the way through and place them in a large dish.
Mix all the dry ingredients together then add to the garlic and mix thoroughly with the yoghurt.
Pour the whole mixture over the chicken and leave to marinade for a minimum of 6-8 hours, 24 hours preferably.
Place on a wire rack over a roasting tin and bake for 40 minutes or until tender on gas mark 6/200/400.
Hard core cooks will enjoy roasting the spices freshly before hand.
1. Pick your Artist:
2. Are you a male or female:
The Great Depression
4. How do you feel:
5. Describe where you currently live:
A Town Called Malice
6. If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
In The City
7. Your favorite form of transportation:
Down In The Tube Station at Midnight
8. Your best friend is:
You’re The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me
9. You and your best friends are:
10. What’s the weather like:
11. If your life were a TV show, what would it be called:
12. What is life to you:
13. Your LAST or current relationship:
A Solid Bond in Your Heart
14. Your fear:
My Ever Changing Moods
15. What is the best advice you have to give:
Time For Truth
16. Thought for the Day:
We’ve Only Just Started
17. How I would like to die:
Set The House Ablaze
18. My soul’s present condition:
It’s Too Bad
19. My motto:
Recently a game playing acquaintance of mine on Facebook posted a comment about how her toddler had “influnzas” and that she should have insisted that the doctor had gave the child a flu jab. The implication was that the doctor thought the child didn’t need it for whatever reasons. Her dad replied with links to the CDC to substantiate his claim that children along with “people with mental illness” are more vulnerable when they have flu. He then went on to list a whole set of neurological disorders. Surprise, surprise! No mental health problems or illnesses listed. Naturally I wasn’t happy with this statement of his.
I pointed out rather tetchily that neurological conditions could not be classified as mental illnesses or vice versa. I’m sure that people with epilepsy the world over would be extremely disheartened to find that they were considered to be mentally ill. I called their remarks stupid, ill informed and uneducated. I immediately dropped the whole family. The father of them all, who claims to be a paramedic of 15 years standing, sent me a message (before blocking me and therefore stealing my right to reply) saying that I had no right to be angry and it’s not his fault I have a horrible life.
It’s amazing how people with prejudices manage to blame the person with the problem that terrifies them.
This blog post is for you Aaron Rex. I’ll make sure you get to see it and long may you remain too poor to visit England. We have our fair share of bigots and bigotry and we don’t need you adding to it.
A mouse of my acquaintance in seven days was fed
Twice twenty thousand swordfish, and now that mouse is dead.
The mercury in swordfish is an enemy to dread.
He ate twice twenty thousand, and that mouse is dead.
His sister gnawed through pizzas (I’m told one million four).
There’s talk of botulism, and that sister is no more.
Their brother downed ten thousand turkeys lined with pesticide.
It took a week to kill him, but that poor mouse died.
So stay away from hormones, and from salmonella too,
Be impolite to cyclamates, and DDT eschew,
For additives and chemicals can kill you just like that,
Though (confidentially) those mice were done in by the cat.
The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understood all about it.
“What is Real?” asked the Rabbit one day when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ”Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stickout handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. ”It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ”When you are REAL you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. ”You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
“I suppose you are Real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
“The Boy’s uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
I gave up drinking nearly 20 years ago on the same day that I gave up abusing drugs of both the legal and the illegal kind. I stopped them one morning after being told that if I carried on the way I was then I would be dead within two years. Two years of dying slowly and horribly not party, party, party and a spectacular death at the end of it. It was a hard lesson but one I learned really quickly. I did take another year to pack in the fags, that was the worst addiction of them all.
I look back on the time that I drank way beyond excess partly in horror and partly in a sense of loss. Alcohol was my best friend and my lover. It was more faithful to me than my husband and it had more staying power than my lover. It was the reason I woke in the morning and the reason I fell unconscious each night. My first drink of the day was the reason for my being. I would inhale the fumes of whatever whisky it was deeply, holding small sips in my mouth, swirling them round my teeth & making the back of my mouth sting before letting those first precious drops of the day slide down my throat so that I could begin to feel normal again after a few hours of enforced separation.
I had a different drink for every occasion. When I was loading and unloading the washing machine I had Valpolicella because it didn’t mind the warmth of the kitchen. It was a pretty good wine for drinking whilst cooking. When I ironed I drank litres of Lambrusco because all that steam made me pretty hot and thirsty. When I was working it was vodka with lemonade or another soft drink because it was easily hidden. If I was hungry it was Guinness or port and brandy. Sometimes, if I was very hungry, I had Guinness with port added to it. If I was all alone I sat on the top floor of my pub in the unused bedrooms and kept company with a vintage Barolo. I can still remember the last bottle I drank. It was 10 years old and triggered orgasms on my tongue. I often dream about how that same bottle would taste today at 30 years old.
Mostly though I drank whisky. For 18 years my constant companions were my three blokey buddies - Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. Whisky was a sweet torture because even though I adored the taste, the colour, the smell and the shape of the bottles, it gave me the hangover from hell. Long after I stopped drinking I could taste whisky in my mouth when I’d been dreaming of soothing away my problems the old fashioned way. Whisky was my first love and the other drinks were the times I strayed from the path, the guilty affairs that I could never quite give up.
After I’d been drinking for about 4 or 5 years the alcohol no longer did for me what I needed it to do. I drank, like all other alcoholics, to change the way I felt. I hated myself deeply and whilst it never gave me the courage to love myself it did give me the means to hate myself less. Then, as with all addictions, it takes more and more to get the feeling you need. Illegal drugs are very handy as is easy access to Valium and I took advantage of both. I would have vehemently denied being a dealer in those days but there isn’t really another name for someone who sells drugs for profit even if they were “soft” drugs and it was only to her friends.
The constant drinking and using combined with far too little food and far too much emotional baggage meant that I caused devastation to the people around me. I was unpredictable to a point that, even when quite young, I could behave in almost any way I wanted in the local pubs & clubs because it just wasn’t worth upsetting me. I look at that person now and feel sorry that she ever saw life. If anyone got close to me then they were getting close to a person I had manufactured and not the person I actually was. I didn’t build walls to see who cared enough to climb over them; I built them so I could have target practice when people dared to climb over the top. I led a life that was far too charmed and paid for my misdeeds only when my conscience kicked in when I eventually stopped living what I had considered a life that others were jealous of.
Towards the end of my drinking and using, despite running a pub and living there rent free and without bills to pay, my money was no longer stretching to pay for my habits. I had stopped dealing when I moved into the pub, finally realizing that it actually was dealing and not doing a friend or two a favour. I was married to an alcoholic and was planning to kill him because I couldn’t face trying to divorce him. I was desperate to keep drinking and terrified of running out of booze. That’s when I started to watch the old people going in and out of the post office next door. I knew where they lived and I knew if they lived alone. I was seriously considering stealing from old people just to feed my booze habit.
And that is why legalizing drugs that are now illegal and making them widely available won’t reduce drug related crime in any meaningful way.
An addict is an addict whatever the drug of choice and will stop at nothing to satiate their need. Except that need is never satisfied and more of whatever the drug might be is needed and it can never be found cheaply enough. I stopped at violent crime but many don’t.
Only 30% of people who enter into treatment for alcoholism or drug addiction actually become permanently clean and/or sober. The rest repeatedly return to drink and drugs until it eventually kills them.
The only way we can do anything meaningful about drug related crime is to look at why addictions happen, make treatments much more readily available, recognize that getting someone clean and then returning them to their old neighbourhoods will never work. If we treat the problem holistically then maybe, and only maybe, can we look at legalizing some of the drugs that are now illegal.
I want to sit beside him and find out if those muscles really are that defined. I want to touch his hand in a moment of public intimacy and feel its softness wrap itself around my heart.
I want him to be sleeping deeply as I lie awake, his breathing providing the pace for my mindfulness.
I want him to be my morning coffee and afternoon tea, my game of two halves, a compliment to my wholeness and a supplement to that which I lack.
I want him to be the one that understands that whilst I am fierce about my independence I still need love and encouragement. Aloneness is wonderful but loneliness can be just a lack of that understanding.
I want his passion to melt the ice cubes in my summer drink and to warm me in the winter. I want him to fill me up and drain me completely, to energize and empty in a wonderful productive cycle.
I want him.
© Cecilia Weightman 2007 -2010