A Pig and a Birdcage

A day or two ago I stumbled on these - or rather, the pictures of them. I found the objects themselves at around Christmas-time, in the antiques centre on Topsham Quay - not possessing enough funds to buy them or anywhere suitable to put them, I had to settle with photographs alone.

The pig was perhaps one of the most satisfyingly chunky, realistic money-pigs, too heavy for me to shift - so perhaps it would be a perfect doorstop, or a cheeky swear-box, or a seriously safe place to keep a spot of cash, given that nobody would be able to run off with it in a hurry. Though I have to say I rather liked it in combination with the big grey flagstone floor it sat on, it could just as easily fit with bare oak floorboards...or atop a chunky plan-chest in a minimalist room...or at the side of a hearth, a quirky companion to a startled china dog missing its twin?

 The birdcage, admittedly, could be unashamedly shabby-chic, or a spot of classic English (fitting well with Topsham's creamy Georgian houses and airy estuary), with the prerequisite ribbon bows, and lollipopped bay trees, battered brown bear sitting inside it looking very affronted, with its posable limbs askew. Possibly. It seemed to work better amongst the dark dusty antiques, the garden shears, the flowerpots. This isn't, after all, a replica to be picked up for £10 in a modern boutique. Rather, it smacks of some durability; set off its sweetness against some bright taxidermy birds, or place it somewhere unexpected - a kitchen, an entrance hall. Indulge it as ornamental, certainly, but not as sickly sweet.

The Lion, the Bitch and the Wardrobe

Yesterday evening I found myself at a dinner where, armed with a bag of deceptively Mary Poppins-esque volume, and a bottle of wine which turned out to taste like vodka laced with grape juice, I formally received the title of "Wardrobe".

"Wardrobe Director", I admit, had been hoped for (by me); "Wardrobe Bitch" had been proposed (not by me); "Wardrobe" had been decided upon. Afterwards I cornered the Treasurer in the rickety blue old bar, and hinted that the budget might stretch to a sewing machine, along with a Lion and a Witch to keep me company (though I did concede that I could fulfil all three roles if necessary).

Naturally, people did wonder if
a) I could make them a dragon outfit, and
b) if it was anatomically possible to transport people to Narnia.
Wonderful.

To prove that I am not a completely useless Wardrobe already, I've unearthed a couple of a/w 1934 fashion plates lurking in the back of my real wardrobe back at home. Isn't 1934 elegant! Women were women again after the 1920s and the lines were simple, clean and tailored.

Today's Special: Rat on a Stick

Small lizards with no tastebuds who have spent all their lives in caves (as yet unexposed to the concepts of cookery, kitchens, or food apart from miniature green slimy swimming things) would take around four-and-a-half seconds to work out there is something wrong with my college's dining hall. By wrong here, we're talking seriously wrong, as in "fundamentally wrong beyond all reason".

I was queuing up a little while ago so that I could pay to sample the delicacies on offer, and went for the most edible-sounding thing on the menu, "Lamb Kebab". The person in front of me, a balding 4th-year with glasses and an impossibly vast raincoat, was presented with this offering as well. We looked glumly at our plates in a kind of Oliver-meets-Manic-Depressive way, before the 4th-year said knowingly, "Rat on a Stick."

A few days later Rat-on-a-Stick was beaten by what could only be called "Modern Art". I admit, some of this was my fault - the four main courses on offer each looked equally dreadful, so I decided to cut my losses and get a small helping of each, my reasoning being that if one tasted like death warmed up (and that was the vegetarian course), I could move onto the next one.

My brilliant plan was foiled by the towering intellect of the man with the serving spoon, who waited behind the counter, clutching it as if he was going to use it to beat small rodents senseless, before sending them down to the kitchens to be kebab-ed. This guy, I should mention, is the sort of person who would blindly introduce bulls to china-shop owners at parties, send puffer-fish drifting blissfully into a children's swimming pool, or put David Attenborough in a toreador's outfit.

Needless to say, he thought putting chicken curry, baked beans, chips and ratatoille on the same plate, piled one on top of the other, was acceptable, normal and edible. Please believe me when I promise you that it was none of these things.

Vaguely queasy, the only thing to be done was to arrange the mush on my plate into a big smiley face, call it modern art (man with chips for eyes, chicken for hair, and a terrible skin disease), and promise myself that I'd learn to cook...