Sheep’s Head Broth? No thanks. 

I seized a moment of domestic motivation to tidy some drawers and found a couple of ancient recipe books. Here’s a recipe for ye oldde lettyce and tomattoe saladde, should you be stumped for such a tricksy recipe at any time.   

Additionally, if you’ve a sheep’s head lurking in the fridge, which I sincerely doubt, unless you’re Brett Easton Ellis, you may want to get on this recipe toot sweet before the head reaches its use by date. Note advice re brains. 

Similarly if you’ve any balls that require to be Westphalia’d, look no further. I wasn’t interested until I read “fry in smoking hot fat”. Phwoarrr. The finest words in the English language, right there. 


Now that those pesky nights are drawing in, and we’re all hunkering down for the worst winter in living memory, as predicted every fucking year since the year dot by the harbingers of doom at the Daily Express, my arguably limited attention span turns to all things craft. Thus, this morning I’m pickling beetroot like a wummin possessed. I’m not overly keen on pickling things, it conjures up unwanted images of deformed fetuses in jars in a mad scientist’s laboratory…
…and I’m revisiting the tank top knitting of yore… 


The tank top pictured above, for one fine day it may well be recognised as a tank top, is you may recall, destined for the torso of Mrs Tigerbaps. It’ll be ready by the time we’re 70 (hypothetically, we’re 12 years apart). She’ll wear it though, because she loves me too much to argue, and who wouldn’t – I’m a picture of loveliness this morning with my beetroot stained hands and Primark animal print dressing gown. 

And with that I bid you a good day. There’s work to be done. Well, I say done, I’ll never complete any of the above, but it keeps me busy and out of trouble. Kinda. 


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