PIE It was a very good shepherd’s pie that I made last week (top tip: a dollop of tomato chutney in the mincey mix) but I thought it would never end.
Day after day, when Matthew would hopefully ask what was for dinner, I’d say brightly ‘Shepherd’s Pie!’ as if he hadn’t already eaten his own weight in the bloody stuff. ‘Great!’ he’d say, then slink off to keen somewhere. But it’s all gone now. And I won’t be making Shepherd’s Pie again until perms come back in to fashion.
DOG/EGG CONUNDRUM If you read regularly (and God bless you and keep you if you do) you’ll be aware of Mavis, our dog.
You may also be aware of Eggs Benedict. I’m inordinately fond of both these things, altho’ Mavis is better company. I ordered Eggs Benedict when Matthew and I had a rare Niamh-less night in a hotel to celebrate our wedding anniversary this week, but as I raised the fork to my mouth I stopped. (This is rare – forks do not stop on the way to my mouth, unless there’s a fire alarm or somebody is pointing a gun at me.) ‘Here,’ I said to my husband of exactly eight years. ‘What does that smell remind you of?’ ‘Mavis,’ he replied without hesitation. Put me right off.
And here’s the start of an occasional series! Oh the excitement.
No, I don’t like him Anton du Beke. Can’t like him. (I haven’t tried very hard, but all the same.) He’s so oily, treating the viewing public as if they’re a mass of sex-starved octogenarian ladies all gagging for a glimpse of his bony behind as he drags some poor celebrity around the Strictly Come Dancing set. He seems to be becoming a celebridee in his own right now. He looks at the camera as if there’s a mirror on it, and he’s admiring his own glorious features. I saw him in the street the other day and purposefully didn’t let on I recognised him. Ooh, I’m hard, me. Oh, and his real name is Anthony Beak, for goodness’ sake. I think I’ll write my next book under the name Bernadine du Strack.
Yes, I do like her Claudia Winkelman. Once I’d come to terms with the thinness, the orangeness, and the nature of the eye make up, I realized I love her. She’s funny, and original, and so very small that it puts her on a par with Mavis vis a vis cuteness levels. I like to see witty women doing well. And she’s got lovely hair. I only really like the sort of people you can imagine lunch in a restaurant just going on and on with, and I fondly fantasise that Claudia and I would still be there when dinner started.
I am Bernadette Strachan, but please call me Bernie or I’ll assume you’re telling me off. I am an author of romantic fiction, with added funny bits. Six books are already out there in the world (WHY DO WE HAVE TO LIVE WITH MEN? came out in October 2010) and number seven is coming to life under my fingers at the moment.
I live in Kingston, Surrey with my husband, my daughter and our dog. The husband is Matthew, a composer. The daughter is Niamh, she’s six years old. The dog is a spaniel called Mavis. She is quite thick. As Niamh might put it, I superduper love them all.
I’m mad about books, and consider it a privilege to be paid to write. I love to cook, I overeat, I feed gangs of people as often as I can. I’ll be your friend forever if you offer me Pavlova but I may avoid you if you insist on giving me fish. Just can’t be doing with fish.
I can’t bear txtspk, I love bad television, I think Johnny Depp should be available on the national health. I’m rather shy, although I can be horrendously extrovert when the spirit moves me, I do yoga once a week, I have a stationery fetish, I love it when Niamh puts on shows for me in the kitchen.
Err, that’s all really.