Favourite things. More of.

I'm keeping the good side out today. If I was a fried egg, I'd be sunny side up.

So...here are a few more of my favourite things, because, well, because we all bitch and whine too much. Therefore, without further ado, je te presente the next in my long-running series of heavily hyphenated, feel-good, group hug perk-me-up and ruffle-me-hair like a Jack-the-Lad (drumroll)...anti-rants.

1. Jaffa cakes

The undisputed king of biscuits/cakes/whatever that court case decided there a while ago. I'm literally never without a stash of these in the house - milk comes and goes, but never the Jaffassssss - and I do a little jig in the supermarket aisle when they've got the 24 for the price of 12 offer on. Get in.

It's a shame they got rid of the Munchkins though.

You know, when I die and am called to my eternal reward, people will sit glum, silent and bereft at my wake, as the clock doles time on the mantle and someone rakes the ashes of the fire and says:

"He was a lovely man. Loved washing ducks of an evening. Always had a packet of Jaffa cakes on him too.

"And a cow in the wardrobe, oddly."

2. Shaving

Well not shaving per se, but rather that unique feeling of being shaven-ness that one can only acquire through, uh, shaving.

Now, as the medical terminology would have it, I'm a fierce hairy bastard altogether, so I generally have a five o'clock shadow by 2pm. This would seemingly demand that I shave more often than twice a week, but such is my love of being close shaven that I, paradoxically, apportion and ration my shaves down to twice every seven days. This, you see, ensures there is sufficient growth for an easy, comfortable shave - so I get to be all swish and swashbuckle flourish with the razor, like the chaps in the ads on the telly, with the hapless hair getting bulldozed off my jaw like stubbly rubble. Shaving a short beard y'see, is just a recipe for nicks and cuts and burns, can't be doing with it at all.

Just last week, now, I went retro and started using a shaving brush for the first time. Now I foam that bristly baby up and slap and slather my face until it's like a fresh pavlova, and off I go. I feel like John Wayne in a Western every time and I'm just waiting for a renewed attack of piles so I can do the walk and everything. Coo!

3. Jessica Fletcher

There's just something dependable about ole' Jessica. I saw her mentioned on Red Lemonade the other day and just got to thinking about the staple she has been in my life for so long now.

Despite the fact that countless incompetent Chiefs of Police across the USA see fit to disparage and dismiss her as some sort of interfering old biddy who read too much Miss Marple, Jessica just brushes it all off and keeps on bagging them criminals so she does.
Anyway, never mind that she can't think of any fucking plots for her novels on her own, and so hangs about crime scenes so she can rip them off and profit on the back of others' misfortune, I still think she rocks. And the icing on the cake is that each episode usually has a big feel-good communal laugh ending, just like in that other seminal crime series, Scooby Doo.

I do often wonder, however, given the fact that she was involved in anything up to 270 murder investigations, some sleuth or other didn't sit down and twig that the one common denominator in them all was actually Jessica herself. Hmmm. I reckon the crafty bitch was bumping them off herself, and using a cunning mix of crime-scene experience and enchanting prose, she pinned the blame on someone else. What a truly magnificent old hag.

And, while I'm warmed up, I still can't figure out how she got so many invites to all these big parties and functions and fundraisers and hanging out with Sultans on yachts and shit. It's a simple equation. Jessica Fletcher + social event  = guaranteed corpse within 15 minutes. Now I'm no socialite, God knows, but one thing I do know about the boogie-woogie is that if anything takes the gloss off a party, it's a dead body floating in the punch bowl.
Pah! Never mind, I think she's a wee pet. If she thinks she's coming near my house though, she can fuck off.

4. Listening to the rain

Oh listen to the rhythm of the falling rain, telling me some dickhead's getting soaked...

Yeah that's what it's all about isn't it? You're wrapped up cosy and tight in bed, burrowing down with an ear cocked to the musical hiss of rain hitting the tarmac outside, and then you hear the unmistakable hurried clip-clops of someone rushing to get under cover. There comes a gust of wind and there's a brief rattle on the windows like pebbles clattering down a tin roof.

You burrow down further and draw your knees up to your chest, snug, and smug, as a bug in a rug. Ahhhhhhh.

5. Womens' bras

No seriously, they're great. But only a very particular type, mind you. Specifically, the ones with the plain black curved cups; so when they poke up from under a plunging neckline, it makes me think that Mickey Mouse is living down there and he doesn't realise his ears are sticking out. Fun times!