Jack Monroe #509 The Silence of the Scams.
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#thread title BIB
Mad to think she was 27 here when she has the dress sense of a 45 year old.
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On that note - I re-read the Simon Hattenstone Guardian piece the other day and noticed he described her as “stylish” so clearly his eyes failed to do due diligence. She dresses like my best friends 70 year old, middle class, woman’s institute attending, coast walking, slightly racist mum.
[/QUOTE]
On that note - I re-read the Simon Hattenstone Guardian piece the other day and noticed he described her as “stylish” so clearly his eyes failed to do due diligence. She dresses like my best friends 70 year old, middle class, woman’s institute attending, coast walking, slightly racist mum.
Her gums look 'odd' not sure if that’s facetune
also, confirmation of her vaping habit, which also never appeared in the £20 shop
#ThrowbackThursday: from guest's archives again - Come to Bed Parmigiana
Parmigiana means parmesan cheese, which this recipe doesn't use. So it's not parmigiana, is it?
This is apparently the first romantic dinner guest ever made for LJC:
"11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless."
Imagine eating slop for a month because you're too polite to say no ...
Guest clarified elsewhere that they met on The Victoria Derbyshire Show and she was a mess because she'd been on a wild night out. No wonder LJC was annoyed with her
Parmigiana means parmesan cheese, which this recipe doesn't use. So it's not parmigiana, is it?
This is apparently the first romantic dinner guest ever made for LJC:
"11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless."
Imagine eating slop for a month because you're too polite to say no ...
Guest clarified elsewhere that they met on The Victoria Derbyshire Show and she was a mess because she'd been on a wild night out. No wonder LJC was annoyed with her
Sorry but that actually gave me a headache to read. I tried to read it a few times and I actually can't make sense of it
Naaa guest
Guest to English translation (approx):Sorry but that actually gave me a headache to read. I tried to read it a few times and I actually can't make sense of it
"11 months ago today, I turned up to work late and a mess because I'm a sad little pixie
and was totes not hungover. I left my walking stick in the lobby and limped around. LJC was a bit pissed off at me for being late, but it was love at first sight. Poetically. I followed her on Twitter and a few weeks later we had dinner at my house. It was probably Ocado but please pretend it was this slop, which is somehow a metaphor for falling in love."...why leave your walking stick in the lobby?
her stories are soooooooo DULL she literally just adds a lot of unnecessary words to pad out what wouldn't even be worth writing about
'My mania of hair', 'my strange little heart'. Fuckin tosspot.
Jesus I thought you were taking the piss out of her writing style but no! That's all her
Hot and saline and sticky and sweet? Gross.
If you need a walking stick why would you leave it in the lobby?
What is a mania of hair? There she goes again with her words that she doesn't actually know the meaning of
BiB - a bit early (oh, who cares) but title thread nom
guest. cannot. write. properly.
On that note - I re-read the Simon Hattenstone Guardian piece the other day and noticed he described her as “stylish” so clearly his eyes failed to do due diligence. She dresses like my best friends 70 year old, middle class, woman’s institute attending, coast walking, slightly racist mum.
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See I reckon he popped that adjective in to slyly say she can afford to dress well despite not being able to afford shower gel.
Every time I re-read that piece I see even more clearly that it's a hatchet job. They basically did her dirty like The Cut and Megan Markle.
If you knew her, you would know that she HATES attention.
Is eponymous on the list?
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