Things have been exceptionally quiet here at The Fatdog Broadcasting Corporation.
Over the past few weeks other matters have, out of necessity, had to take priority with the result that the non-existent walking programme has taken a further set back.
The garden (did I hear a collective groan?) required somewhat urgent attention having been quietly ignored over the past few years and this week we were at last in a position to sort out a holiday, which meant a lot of head scratching and internet searching. So between the other matters and my general indolence we’ve done little worthy of sticking up on the blog.
Last weekend was hot and sunny, meaning that any attempt at walking The Fatdog could reasonably be considered tantamount to animal cruelty. I was left with little room for manoeuvre…the garden beckoned
I took the easiest of the options. Shrubs were re-potted and placed into the corner of the garden left bare by the recent execution of the giant eucalyptus trees and bright summer annuals were stuffed unceremoniously into pots. The sun continued to beat relentlessly down into our postage stamp garden and on me in particular. Time for a break. Satisfied that I hadn’t worked too hard I shuffled over to the lounger with a beer.
The summer smells of freshly charred sausages wafted over the fence from next door My nose twitched hungrily. The Fatdog drooled. I stared hopelessly at our own “barbie”. Two years of inactivity had taken its toll on the weatherproof cover. Once shiny black but now an unfetching mix of bleached grey patches and off-white bird crap, the present condition of the cover suggested what lay beneath might prove to be equally unappealing.
Delicately grasping a corner between thumb and forefinger I carefully removed the offending fabric.
Well…the BBQ looked a lot better than I dared hoped. Even the gas bottle appeared in reasonable condition. I lifted the lid with some degree of trepidation, but the expected exodus of frightened bats and other critters of the dark and smelly failed to appear.
I lifted out the disgusting fat encrusted grill rack with an appropriate level of wariness given its obvious germ ridden condition. Oddly, decomposition of the remains had progressed to such a state that a mere wipe with a hesitant forefinger was enough to take off the thick layer of 2 year old desiccated grot.
Five minutes and half a bottle of Fairy Liquid later the grill rack was sparkling clean and the “barbie” ready to fire up. I turned the start dial…it clicked…and flames dutifully burst into life. Now that was an unexpected bonus!
On went the sausages and the courgette slices soaked in lemon juice, rosemary and olive oil. Up went the flames as the oil caught light! Happy days!
PS If you’re reading Robin…we’re talking REAL flames.