We had a go at dyeing my hair, yesterday. I used to do it on my own, but always seemed to miss out bits at the back, so started to combine a colouring session with my two-monthly haircut instead. Now I know why it’s worth every penny and the slog up to town. The mess! The ruined towels! The big give-away tide mark on my forehead! The awful backache, from leaning right over the bath to rinse it all off! And why does the whole process always take four times longer than they claim on the packet? I had to rope in the OH, too, to sort out the annoying back bits for me. I’m sure he was only joking when he somewhat dramatically declared: “Never ask me to do this again!”
Inspired by MasterChef, I fancied trying something new for last night’s meal. Something simple, though. So we made a certain famous chef’s tuna and butter bean salad. Five ingredients: tuna, butter beans, red onion, celery and flat-leaf parsley. Plus seasoning, a bit of oil for cooking the butter beans and red wine vinegar for the dressing. We didn’t have the latter, so used balsamic instead. It looked fab in the picture in said chef’s book, of course, but our verdict was that it was too dry, especially the beans. Obviously our fault entirely, but we don’t know where we went wrong. However, when I was opening the can of tuna, I remarked to the OH that it looked very pink for tuna, and smelled more like red salmon. I looked at the can again: Red salmon! How we laughed. Today, for lunch, we had the leftovers (minus the butter beans) in warmed pitta bread pockets, with a dash of mayo, and agreed it was far nicer that way.
Tonight, we treated ourselves to another Italian takeaway. We balked a little at the bill: just shy of thirty quid for two pasta dishes and garlic bread! Ouch. We think they must be charging their full eat-in restaurant prices, when takeaways should really be cheaper. And we collected it, as well. But they are a local business, trying to stay afloat while doing good deeds for the community, and we are happy to support them.
On our way there, we passed the fish and chip shop up the road, where two policemen were waiting for their food. We often see the police hanging around the small shop at the garage, and people on local social media groups like to moan about them doing so, but I always argue back that, since their old station was turned into luxury flats, where else can they go for a coffee break and handy loo? Frankly, I’d like to see a lot more of them around.
Back to my hair: I’m pleased with the finished result, though it’s still in need of a really good trim and tidy-up. Well, I was, anyway, until this evening, when dropping off a bit of shopping for next door. I didn’t move away fast enough from the doorstep and my neighbour actually recoiled when he opened his front door and saw me. It’s only been four weeks since our last meeting. Imagine his reaction after another six!
Because, although “they” are saying it’s only going to be another three weeks of lockdown, I’m not convinced. I really hope they are right, though. Next-door-but-one had a blazing humdinger of a row, yesterday, with spectators, and the other side of us took the car out somewhere today for a couple of hours – their first trip for four weeks. The cracks are starting to show and I’m scared to see who might be next. I do hope it’s not us. I mean, who’s going to do my hair?!