Brexit negotiations going well, I see…
Brexit negotiations going well, I see…
Did; they finally gave up in 2018, having been bought and sold far too many times since the 1970s and never really turned much of a profit. Buses and trucks too.
Fresh loaves out of the oven
Bacon butties on nice fresh bread still warm from the oven so the butter is melting into the bread ready too
Now where is Luigi?
I am on fancy pills to make me widdle
This makes me thirsty
So I need tea from our fancy Italian
Gawds, it’s abit fresh this morning. Windy too.
Am waiting for 2 ‘phone calls, so naturally, they haven’ t happened yet
I am making some Candles out of all of the leftover wax bits I have. Everything is prepared, but I don’t want to be messing about with hot wax & then have to answer the 'phone, so will wait until later.
Have I told people here about the occasion on which I followed my mother’s long-time practice of making one new bar of soap out of all the tail-ends of the old ones, collected in a jam-jar over a year or so?
So do tell us
Aaaargh Fishy not Gus
I have lost my brane cell to painkillers I swear
IANAF, dere. Nor a Lawyer, neither.
See post preceding yours Gus
I am am daft old bag who is currently knitting an orangutan and taking really really strong pain killers - ones that make poppy juice look like a mere willow bark tisane
I used to use my Mother’s Betterware ‘Soap Sam’ to make it from the old bits. Left the new ‘cake’ in the airing cupboard for a couple of weeks, & it lasted for ages.
I use mainly liquid soap these days, so no longer do it.
All cake/bar soap lasts better if stored in the airing cupboard.
I store soap in my knicker drawer
It keeps the clean knickers* fresh and sweet smelling…
*dirty knickers go in the laundry basket
I know you lot and your minds in the sewer…
Should be interesting, Twellsy…
It wasn’t there when I started replying.
My regards to the orang, and three cheers for the painkillers. We would of course sooner the pain wasn’t there in the firstplace, but nevertheless…
Aaaargh Fishy is what they say as the teeth meet…
Many years ago, I kept all the ends of kitchen soap in a jam-jar on the kitchen window-ledge above the sink. (The ends of bathroom soaps were simply added to the new bar, where they stuck and became part of it after about three days.)
One fine Spring day I decided to do as my mother used to, and turn the ends-of-soap into a gel for washing my hands in the kitchen: add water and boil it all up together until the lumps of soap dissolved, then pour it into a ramekin ready for use.
I had got as far as the simmer-up-to-the-boil in an old saucepan part of the process when the phone rang. It was my mother, with several things she wanted to talk about, and I settled down to discuss them with her.
After a bit I noticed that it seemed to be brewing up a storm, because the room was suddenly much darker – but when I turned to look there was still sunshine outside the window; it was only through the glass door into the kitchen that the sky was black. Then I realised that the window pointed in the same direction…
I hastily ended the call with my mother and opened the kitchen door to a charnel-house reek and what I can only describe as black cobwebs hanging in the air between me and the stove. The air below stove-level was clear, though, so I closed the door into the dining-room where I had been, knelt down and turned off the gas with my head under the cobwebs, crawled to the outside door and opened it, and used an oven-glove to carry the pan into the garden. When the air had had a chance to clear a bit I came back in and looked about me. There may have been blasphemy at this point.
All the surfaces above stove-height, including a loaf of bread which had been sitting out on the bread-board instead of in the bread-bin, were covered with black greasy hanks of Stuff, which was also trailing from the lower edges of the cupboards and from the plate-rack above the grill and from the light-shades and the window-handles. The windows were black, the fronts of the cupboards (all mercifully closed) were black, the freezer was black on two sides, there was black on the taps – but not in the sink; that was below stove-level. The ceiling was black.
We did try to clean it all, but it was beyond us. In the end we got a new kitchen, not before time but we hadn’t actually budgeted to do it that year when we were still paying for the repairs we had to do when the side tried to fall off the house and the roof followed.
The moral of this is that trying to save 40p for two bars of soap might be a false economy.
Above & Beyond, I call that, Fishy…
Remembers the rice pudding /pressure cooker/ceiling interface
We made cakes/bars, not gel, & used them mainly on collars & cuffs before laundering
Experienced similar with curried something or other because my then boyfriend was a bit of a pillock when it came to pressure cookers*. Gave the plaster the sort of colour pub ceilings used to be. Farrow & Ball, take note.
I am told that pressure cookers are Much Better these days. A friend of mine has had no explosions at all.
Sounds like “Britain’s latest weapon: the explosive jam roly poly”. Which is also in the Romney Marsh books, though in this particular case it happened at the Punchbowl Farm.
If I go and find the book I am liable to quote that scene.
The same does not apply to boyfriends, so I’ve heard ;- )
Now where’s the fun in that?
I did suggest to my Mother thst, if she moved it about abit, she could have artexed the ceiling…
I was not popular…
Remembers exploding ginger beer bottles on a different part of the same ceiling…
Still waiting for 'phone calls