Along with a considerable percentage of the UK population, Mr B and I are preparing to watch Strictly Come Dancing. My main task, in terms of preparations, is to ensure that dinner is (i) on the table; (ii) eaten; and
(iii) cleared away before that annoying title music summons us to our respective armchairs.
Mr B says he doesn't want too much dinner. There are few comments more
disheartening to a cook - I am using the word here in terms of “one who cooks” rather than claiming any culinary expertise - than the implication that the meal so carefully prepared will be less than, shall we say, delicious. I am thinking that
Jamie, or Heston or Gordon would refuse to accept such a half-hearted approach to one of their dishes.
Okay, so I have only cooked a cottage pie. Served with mixed
sliced cabbage and leeks. It's not exactly Masterchef Australia. Though yesterday on MA, when Heston cooked poached eggs for the contestants as part of a Masterclass, Mr B actually commented that my coddled eggs (for coddled, read poached) were at least as
good, if not better, than Heston’s. Now there's praise for you. It's just a pity that my cottage pie didn't cut the mustard. Is that a culinary term? I need to know.
Mind you, the fact that Mr B didn't linger over his dinner meant that we were ready in plenty of time to sit down ready for the Dancing Delights and Disasters which make up Strictly. It's Movie night tonight. Mr B and like Movie Night, mostly because
we recognise the songs. This helps our enjoyment, we find, particularly as a counter-balance to the fact that we don't recognise many of the celebrity contestants. This isn't their fault, I hasten to say, but ours for failing to read celebrity magazines or
to watch the soaps.
Mr B says he recognises Susan Calman because she hosts a TV show he occasionally watches when there's nothing Sports Related on the box.
He tries to explain the principles of the show but it's, like, complicated. We both, like magic, recognise Debbie McGee and also Jonnie Peacock whom we were fortunate enough to watch at the Paralympics in 2012. Mostly, however, our conversation goes like this.
The scores are in!
Me: “Who IS that?”
Mr B: “Can't
I can't somehow see us being invited to star in Gogglebox.
We comfort ourselves with the thought that, by the end of the 2017 competition, we will know and love all the contestants. Either that or they will have been voted off, poor things. Not by us, of course because we never think to vote.
It wasn't for this, after all, that Mrs Pankhurst and her Suffragette Sisters fought the Good Fight.
We have watched a quick reprise of each dance; Tess and Claudia
have taken us through the various ways we can vote and exhorted us to “keep dancing!” Mr B is slumbering peacefully in his armchair at my side. Occasionally he emits a satisfied sigh.
I think he's dreaming of Kentucky Fried Chicken…