
ISSN: 2977-6368
PARTING SHOT
A funny thing happened to me the other day...
SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALL RIGHT FOR DECORATING
A COOKING CHALLENGE, A BI-MONTHLY CHORE OF JUST A PLAIN OLD RECIPE FOR DISASTER?
DYANA SONGI
alright on the night
Upon moving into a down-trodden student house (see squat) in my early 20s, I was informed by the bossiest comrade that it was incumbent upon all the inhabitants to take a turn to make dinner for their housemates on a Saturday night. If the cost was probihitive, I must simply let the others know, and contributions would be made, but the opportunity to cook would be mine and mine alone. Everyone would take a turn at this, so it was very fair, and there were 8 of us in total, so a bi-monthly commitment; not a huge ask. I nodded and beamed enthusiastically. What I should have done is immediately mention that I’d yet to make a meal for one beyond beans on toast for my entire existence thus far. Could I just wash up every night? I’m really good at washing up! But as that would have been very embarrassing, I said nothing. A friend I confided in laughed and lent me a simple recipe for a chicken casserole. None of my housemates were vegetarians, and it would be very affordable. It’ll be fine, she trilled reassuringly. You’re very organized when you want to be, and you need to play to your strengths. You just need to prepare everything ahead. Take your time, and remember to season it. You’ll enjoy it! Her attempts to embolden didn’t land however. I shared none of her culinary confidence, and was petrified. My mother hated cooking, and did it out of sheer necessity when she absolutely had to. My father tried a bit, but burnt everything. Her mother had never had a full-time job, and what fun they’d had in the kitchen together with their matching pinnies and wooden spoons. Having grown up in a household where mealtimes were an opportunity for everyone to join in the row, all I’d learnt was exactly how far to jump to dodge that wooden spoon, and to avoid the kitchen as much as was humanly possible. Cooking for me still equals stress on a massive scale. On ‘my’ Saturday, I shopped very carefully for all the ingredients. I had checked my list twice, cleaned the kitchen thoroughly (quite a task in itself), checked I had matches for the gas oven, that there was a casserole dish of an adequate size, and had laid everything out methodically. It was going much better than I’d expected, and by the time I’d chopped it all up and poured the stock over the top, there was a brief smidgeon of satisfaction on my part. Double-checking everything, to my horror, I hadn’t seen that the recipe required cornflour. My bottom lip wobbled. On the off-chance that there would be some in the cupboard, I opened it to see to my great relief a little blue and yellow box with white powder in it. (I know what you’re thinking – but no). I popped a big tablespoon of it in the dish, stirred it round, and popped it in the oven, smiling to myself. I can do this, I thought. Only after around 5 minutes, as I finished washing up, did it hit me that the chances of there being cornflour in a squat full of grungy students were infinitesimally small. I grabbed the box. It was Pollyfilla. I threw open the oven door. It had already started to set. I began to sob. I grabbed the dish and put it on the hob, and threw a tea-towel over the top, hoping no-one would wander in and take a look. I legged it down the fire escape and into the nearby phone box to call the friend. Don’t panic, she soothed. Buy chips! Everyone loves chips. And why didn’t you just use wheat flour? I ran back to the house. Think! You need to play to your strengths. What strengths? You’re hopeless. What on earth are you good at? Washing-up! I’m really great at washing-up! I threw all the ingredients into the sink, gave them a good rinse, washed the casserole dish, bunged the ingredients back in it, poured some more stock on top and put it back in the oven. At dinner, everyone complimented me on my efforts. It’s got a lovely texture, said one of them. What is that? I smiled. wheat flour, I said.


ONCE UPON A TIME ON A DATE WITH THE OPTIMIST
TAKE A WORDY TRIP WITH THE EXPECTANT ROMANTIC EXPERIENCING TRYSTS WITH A TWIST..
DEAN PATTERSON
a poet that knows it
Dating Life of the Punster. I once dated an equation But it didn’t work out, I once dated a Guinness heiress Nice girl, a little stout. I once dated Mary Queen of Scots She was great at giving head, I once dated an electric blanket She was fucking great in bed. I once dated a burning ember She gave me the hots, I once date a woman who lost her dentures See Mary, Queen of Scots. I once dated an unknown sea length But she was hard to fathom, I once dated a computer generated answer She was random. I once dated a playground roundabout but it was not to be as it turns, I once dated a dog, trapped inside a burning vehicle But she gave me carpet burns. I once dated a selfish Dalai Lama But he wouldn’t give me peace I once dated a selfish farmer But he would give me peas, I once dated an American president But he got me in some awful states I once dated the fruit of a dactylifera tree I actually quite enjoyed those dates. I once dated a one-armed uber driver But she drove me round the bend, I once dated an unqualified cardiac surgeon But my heart she couldn’t mend. I once dated a bunch of dried grapes but she left me. She had her raisins, I once dated an in-your-face meditating underwear model But she was far too bra-zen. I once dated a faulty speaker But she wasn’t quite sound I once dated a coat left on the tube But she was lost, and I was found, I once dated a pigmy How could I stoop so low? I once dated a genuine gardening tool Turns out, she was a proper hoe. I once dated an unemployed perfumer But she didn’t make any scents I once dated an unemployed American coin manufacturer But she didn’t make any cents, I once dated a woman with a small patch for gardening But when she left she took the lot I once dated a forgetful fiction novelist But she had clearly lost the plot. I once dated Britain’s fattest man But there was no getting around him, I once dated a man who set treasure hunts Who was lovely, until I found him. I once dated a suspicious refuse collector, But she kept asking where I’ve wheely bin I once dated the current leader of North Korea Nice boobs, but didn’t look much like a Kim. I have dated many in the past, really And most have had their day, But I ended falling for a scabble player Due to what we have in common, wordplay.

VLAD THE IMPALER, OFFICE BANTZ & YELLOW THUMBS
HOW ONE COLLEAGUE’S ONLINE DATING TROUBLES ENDED UP PUTTING THE NO INTO CYRANO
CLAUDIA WARD
at the water cooler
We’ll call her Janet. Janet was a colleague. A Janet who was a dissatisfied regular on every one of the dating apps she qualified for. “Listen to this…” Janet one day read out to the office, “Stephen likes making his own sourdough and clay pigeon shooting. Bore-ring! And OMG - check out his pics…” And we all gathered round and peered at poor, optimistic, oblivious to the scrutiny Stephen, kneading with a knowing wink in one photo, air-rifle in hand and wink in the eye again in the other. “He likes winking”, I said. “I hope so” said Janet “’Cos I’m not meeting up with him.” My entire journey home that evening was spent musing on how our most infamous historical figures – the celebrities of bygone days - would or wouldn’t have coped with the minefield of these online interactions. The intimate but remote game of how your heart teeters on a precipice for the right emoji or swipe, even if you’re Vlad the Impaler. Yes even he would need a “Justina liked your comment I Should Cocoa” . Or Queen Boudica, say, holding her furious, Icini breath as she stares like thunder for a text response to her warrior-pose selfie watching three dots appear then disappear and then reappear again only to disappear altogether forever. Uprisings have been sparked by less. There’s no doubt about it, online dating brings out your fragile. Back to Janet. Weeks passed and somehow Stephen returned on the radar but now as a suitable suitor instead of a sourdough making saddo. I didn’t question it – the gig is tough, after all – and Janet was enjoying his banter. “Quick - help me reply” She said. “He’s being funny about his haemorrhoids but in a really humorous way. C’mon, what shall I say?!” “Say “thanks - I’ve always enjoyed a sonnet,” I said. “Always. Enjoyed. A sonnet…is that two n’s in sonnet” Said Janet, blithely typing. “Wait. You didn’t send that did you?” I cried. “Send. Yes I did.” “Oh god” “And he’s already responded.” “Downward yellow thumb?” “Crying laughing face! Now you have to come up with something else…But make it funnier.” And this was how I became the Cyrano d’Office replying to all of Janet’s dating communications with Stephen which ran at a steady rate - with the odd flurry - throughout the day. It was an exhausting business – mainly because I was keen to maintain the standard of a job I actually wanted to stop doing. Once you have a reputation for being good at something, it’s hard to throw it even when that thing is fraudulent messages that are about as funny my favourite oxymoron’s - Radio 4 Comedy. So I really concentrated on my Cyrano work and thus they became very close without even meeting. So close that Janet finally decided it was time for a first date and then, who knows, she said with a Stephen like wink, perhaps marriage. I was excited for her, and rather concerned , and then excited again. After all, I’d put a lot of effort into this sham working out. I waited with great anticipation for news. Alas the next day we were informed at work first thing by our CEO that Janet wouldn’t be coming in. In fact She would be taking the entire week off. “Has something…happened?” I asked weakly, trying not to look at Janet’s empty chair, all my dazzling wordplay of recent weeks already haunting me “Apparently she met up with a man last night who’s scammed her of all her money. She checked her account after he’d left and every penny’s gone”. It turns out Stephen doesn’t even exist. He’s a con-artist called Roger Dean and the only dough he actually kneaded was in Janet’s wallet. Sorry. My mobile buzzed a message. Inevitable notification from Janet. I opened it and read: “Cyrano you’re effing fired”. And that, I thought, was fair enough. Poor old Janet. And poor old me. I thought Stephen and I were onto something good.
