The Big Borowski’s

I’ve been shamed by the Borowski family, who wrote such a delicious blog that I’ve come straight to the attic, put the heater on, donned thick woollen socks, opened up my blog and started writing.
Trump and May, dominate my political head, but their antics are so confusing and dastardly that I have to turn off the news. Dipping into a bit of current affairs when my constitution is strong and my rage is under control helps, but now what with Dustin Hoffman and various other icons being charged with sexual harassment I think its best to bury my head in the sand, put on blinkers, listen to ‘Steely Dan’, chop fennel and practise mental arithmetic.
BTW went to see ‘Steely Dan’ at the O2 on Sunday – what can I say – thousands of us whooped, cheered, sung, danced, cried and reminisced about the first time we came across them. Me and him first saw their named daubed on a wall, in red paint, in South Hampstead, back in 1977. ‘Rolling Back the Years’ for sure.
My life has so changed in the last ten years that often blogging is the last thing on my mind, not that I have anything first thing on my mind – apart from dribbling nano moans – but creating a routine can be tricky. I’ve always had regular jobs, now gigs come in sporadically, a week in Brighton, a day in Streatham, a Night at the Opera…..but the family Borowski touched my heart, oiled my ego and reminded me that blogging has been part of my life for at least ten years and stopping is not an option.
So, today being Thursday, I’ve chanted, meditated, done me affirmations, had my coffee, slapped on creams to fool the wrinkles, got dressed, put on my back brace, cancelled my 10.000 steps, to give my body a breather, and apart from the oven man, my day is my own. My oven cleaner normally comes in September when I’m preparing for the annual ‘Jew Do’ but this year too many people were away, ill, old or dead to celebrate the Jewish New Year, so I put away the recipe books and hunkered in.
Then I thought I cannot live without gatherings, big, small, never indifferent, and decided on ‘Moon Do’s’ instead, smaller but just as essential. So in October we had the first dinner celebrating THE HUNTER MOON, I made Curried Goat, various tasty side dishes, the dawter made the perfect guacamole plus feathery rice, whilst the granddaughter delivered home made cakes so sweet, one bite was enough to dislodge the bridge on the top right hand side of my puckered mouth. 15 of us sat, or stood, gorging on Carribbean gorgeousness, talked, laughed and disappeared into the last of the summer night.
This Saturday is THE FROST MOON, my eldest daughters birthday, so eleven of us will mainly be eating Borsht, Rogan Josh, Cauliflower Bhaji, pureed roasted peppers and carrots, with lashings of green beans stir fried in carom seeds, the granddaughter is bringing a frosty cake, whatever that means whilst the dawter, Ms Rice Queen, will make a repeat performance of her Curried Goat accompaniment.
Autumn has arrived with a flourish, yellow trees, orange shrubs, birds a plenty filling up on the peanuts that the old git has hung everywhere, and leaves. Leaves everywhere, on the way to the car, outside the kitchen, in the front garden, by the verges, down the road and in piles that the ‘oosbind created with his leaf blowing machine.
He was merrily causing havoc whilst I was out buying provisions for dinner, when I got back he was running like a young thing into the garden. He’d been busily burning all the pruned wood, clothes in the wash as we both smelt like a Kebab shop, and had completed the task by emptying the cinders into the garden behind the studio. Ah! little did he think that the cinders were still incendiary.
‘I’ve burnt the bloody fence down.’ he screamed.
In his excitement at completing all his jobs, he failed to realise that the ashes were still hot, the fence between us and the neighbours, but two years old, was on fire. Five slats of wood torched. On went the hose pipe, to put out the flames, we had our own little forest fire. The neighbour’s were decent about it saying they had burnt the other neighbours oak tree down inadvertently so who were they to cast
aspersions, or anything else for that matter.
Today, Fireman Sam, is having to mend the wire that supplies electric to the garden, whilst hammering in five new fence pieces. I’ve embargoed the electric chain saw just in case he has a mind to massacring the neighbours on the other side.
Tomorrow we’re filming a drama that has been written by one of us, acted by two of us and filmed but the writer. It will be a ‘You Tube’ sensation if we ever get it finished.
I await news on this and that and on Wednesday and Thursday of next week I’m on Radio Sussex, talking to all and sundry from Hassocks to Henfield, Burpham to Bolney, which by the way has a terrific gastro pub THE EIGHT BELLS, run by a lovely mother and daughter who serve achingly good soup and sandwiches as big as a Manchurian Scaffolders biceps, and chips to halt a diet.
Then I’m off to Galway, if Mr Ryan doesn’t cancel the flight first.
I’m already thinking about the COLD MOON DO on December 3rd, I’ve met a photographer cum therapist from East Germany, a therapist cum Celebrant from Ashdown Forest, to which I will add a Homeopath from Norfolk and a couple of stray hippies who were born in Penge but have relocated to Hastings.
The oven man has just called, he’ll be here by lunchtime, so I’m off to collect the last of the sweet chestnuts that are clogging up the lane, learn my lines for tomorrow and prepare the marinade for the lamb.
Darling Borowski’s thank you for the nudge, I’ll be blogging more than less because of you.
Happy Frost Moon on Saturday to ya’ll.