Thursday - and mainly of food things

I LIMP along as we visit the butcher – the damp weather seems to have set off the arthritis in my foot. Anyhow we buy the meat for the weekend: some kidney to go into a hotpot for tomorrow, and a joint of well-hung rib of beef for our Saturday roast. We flinch a little at the cost, though; I tell the butcher that my wallet has just had a heart attack.

“Just as well that you weren’t buying lamb, then,” he says. “It’s nearly doubled in price over the last three months.”

Puzzled, I ask him why.

“Oh, it’s to do with the weak pound. The French and that are coming to the south of England to buy up all our meat, especially the lamb. It’s dead cheap for them now.” And he adds, with a smirk, “The beef’s gone up a bit too, but they’re not so keen on that! They’re still a bit suspicious about mad cows I think.”

We swing by the Pub, then. Only our second visit this week. Little B enquires about any plans for our last-Monday-of-the-month meal out, but nobody’s mentioned anything yet. And maybe nobody will. It’s still all a bit too close to Christmas for comfort. Even the Pub has had to cancel its Burns’ Night, tonight, for lack of bookings. We’re still a bit shell-shocked ourselves, and we know others in the group are in no better a state. Everything from finance problems to family health concerns seems to be our lot at the moment. We shall see, we tell him.

Evening. And old favourite dish for dinner this evening, Floddies - rosti-like mini pancakes with bacon and onions, served with baked beans. Very tasty! Later still, though, I find myself almost aching with tiredness. Nearly a week of broken, sleepless nights has taken their toll on me. An early night is definitely in order.