Right, the flat is clean, the laundry is done, I've finally done the washing up after leaving a pile of dirty dishes and pans sitting in my sink for the last five days, my work jacket is hanging up rather than lying on the floor in a crumpled heap (too damn right; apparently I look good in a suit, according to someone at Waitrose (as well as ZZ Top) so I want to preserve some of that suity magic for a while even if it does exist only in my own head), the shopping has been done for the week too - all part of my normal Saturday chore routine. So now, it's time to fall back on the other activity I always make time to pursue on a Saturday evening; getting shitfaced.

And why the fuck not? Yesterday was hell. For much of the day, there was just me on the counter; the region's biggest branch of HSBC, with just one trainee cashier on duty. One woman took it upon herself to bitch and moan at nobody in particular really loudly, not least about HSBC Live radio, the corporate station that exists so that people talking about their finances with staff can't be overheard. Normally, I bitch about it too; recently, they appear to have adopted a policy of playing that Kid Rock bumdrizzle every day, sometimes twice, to the point where when they played the actual song that talentless cunt had sampled, and even had the barefaced cheek to namecheck in the fucking chorus (Lynyrd Skynyrd's Sweet Home Alabama; somewhere some of that band's members are spinning in their graves, the bits of plane still embedded in them scraping the inside of their coffins as they go). This, to put it bluntly, irritates the fucking cunt off me.

But when Mrs Daily Mail Reader 2008 complained about the radio, they were playing the Rolling Stones for fuck's sake, which is one of the station's few flirtations with quality music. She'd probably heard the Stones being namechecked, remembered all the nasty things they did in their heyday and had terribly offensive, vivid images of Marianne Faithfull with items of confectionary stuck up her, which made her VERY ANGRY. I didn't care, to be frank, because they could have played anything and it'd have been better than either some middle aged snob's whinging or that fucking shitty Kid cunting Rock "song" All shitting Summer wanking Long. And, at the end of all that, when she finally got up to the counter, she was there to do a transfer, something I am simply unable to do (partially because I'm not privileged to yet, mainly because it's done with members of staff up front) so I got bitched out about that as well. Oh well; she was already primally offended by one of the Stones' tamer songs, with any luck she heard Kid Rock sing about "making love out by the lake" and "smoking funny things" on the way back and her head exploded with the sheer depravity of it all. I hope.

Then the same thing happened later. And, by the time we'd finally finished the entire backlog of work, the envelopes from the paying in machine, the cheques from the cheque paying in machine, the batches of slips to be sent off, the general clearup of confidential information and other miscellaneous rubbish, the shutting down of all our machines, it was quarter to six, so I had to wait for 35 minutes for the next bus to Chesham.

Remember my bitching about Arriva, the bus company? Remember how I didn't give any concrete examples of what a bunch of pointless fuckbuckets they are? Well, here's one. Thursday, we'd had one of the buses fuck up on the way home, so they took the bus to the depot and switched everyone onto a different one, which continued the journey. Fine, I can deal with that; it was a quick move, taking no less than 5 minutes. Full credit to the driver for that presence of mind.

Now, last night. Twenty past six, and already fucking fed up. So along trundles the bus, which takes the wrong turning and goes back to the depot with a busload of passengers. Where it sits. For FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES. (The award for Mrs Daily Mail Reader 2008 - Runner Up goes to the woman at the front who piped up with some bollocks about "Broken Britain" when "Fucking stupid privatised bus companies" would have been more accurate and less doom-and-gloom.) No explanation from the driver this time, and when one of the passengers asks what's going on he's basically shouted at by the driver to sit down and shut up, because the bus needs fixing. (Meanwhile, there are other perfectly servicable buses all around us which could be used to continue the journey, being as this is a bus depot). Fifteen minutes. During which time it is never adequately explained what the problem is or why it necessitates us being treated like mugs.

By the time I got home, it was about quarter past seven, and I was, to use the kindest language I can possibly use at this point, cunted right the fuck off. Arriva, you bunch of cunts, I have a simple, heartfelt request - go away. Please. Go bust so the government can take you over. Commit mass suicide. Burn down all your buildings and run screaming into the flames while wearing clothing made of Semtex and pouring petrol over yourselves. This isn't a customer service or even operational issue, this is an issue of common fucking courtesy, something you clearly lack, especially considering the fun I had trying to find your goddamn phone number, which even you don't seem to know.

Bear in mind that, despite what I said at the beginning of this post, I haven't started drinking yet; I'm perfectly sober apart from the coffee I just had. When I've finally got my whisky on, I doubt my feelings towards that bunch of fucking cretins will be able to be expressed as words, if expressed at all; the most I'll be able to get out is a string of punctuation marks, interspersed with random numbers and letters as I smash my forehead against the keyboard and, eventually, the computer itself.

Eat a dick, Arriva. Srsly.

Writers are often asked the question, "Where do you get your ideas from?" as though there is a special place where you can buy them: Asda for chick-lit, perhaps, Waitrose for literary fiction. But, even though this question gets asked a lot, most writers find it difficult to supply a decent answer. The truth is that ideas are all around us, in the people you meet, in the things you read and see and hear and experience, in your own childhood and family, in the wilder reaches of your imagination.

But a good idea isn't the be-all-and-end-all. As anyone who writes will tell you, writing is primarily about graft. It's about a willingness to put in the hours it takes to make your story work. Some writers write very quickly while others labour over projects for years, but neither would deny that writing requires dedication, and that the difference between someone who dreams of being a writer, and someone who gets on with the absorbing and frustrating process of getting the words down, is vast. "Being a writer" is itself a weird idea, really, as though there exists a permanent state of glorious writerliness, when in fact writing is not a state of being, but an art, a craft, a set of technical skills.

Many writers write because they feel compelled to do so; because if they don't, they aren't happy. In some ways, this is the best place to start: have a good idea and then feel guilty every day you waste not working on it.

All serious writers are also serious readers. Writers read for a huge variety of reasons; for research, of course, and for pleasure, but also to learn from writers we admire. While creative writing degrees have helped a lot to professionalise the way we learn to write, there's still much to be said for the auto-didactic approach of intensive, prolonged reading across genre, across period, and across the market as well. It's important to develop your reading skills - when you read something you like, spend some time figuring out why you like it, what the writer is doing to produce this effect. Conversely, when you read something you don't like, think about what it is that displeases you as a reader.

But really, the best way to start writing is to start writing. Get the words down onto the page. For many writers the most productive technique is to push on, regardless of what crap they are spewing. Bad writing can be improved upon, can be polished and cut and shaped and revised. A blank page is just that, and the only thing it is good for is driving you crazy. Whereas a page of writing, well, then you've got something to work with, something that, hopefully, will lead to better things.

Before you get started

· Turn off your word count. So what if you wrote 500 words today? When tomorrow arrives, you'll probably have to cut 450 of them. Only count words when you are in need of reassurance; only count words on those desperate days when knowing you've written a bunch of words will make you feel like you've achieved something, regardless of the quality.

· Find a simple but compelling way to describe to people what you are writing. When you tell people you are writing a novel they will, inevitably, ask "What's it about?" If you reply, "Well, I'm not really sure, it's kind of about a guy who isn't all that happy and is thinking about maybe moving someplace else, but can't make up his mind," you'll panic as their eyes glaze over and their smile slowly fades, and you'll end up thinking, "God that sounds awful, why am I even bothering to write this thing?" about your own novel, which is never a good thing. Instead, have a good line, something like, "It's about a woman who establishes an independent republic inside one of the pods on the London Eye," to which people will reply, "What happens to her?" and you'll have your first potential sale. It doesn't matter that much if you are, in fact, writing a novel about a guy who isn't all that happy and is thinking about maybe moving somewhere else, as you'll have spared yourself one of life's tiny humiliations. Writing is a kind of confidence trick - you have to con yourself into thinking you can do it, into thinking that what you are writing is the Real McCoy. Finding a way to describe what you are doing and protecting your own fragile ego isn't such a bad idea. Write your one-liner on a piece of card and stick it up where you can see it while you work; when the going gets tough and you are trapped in the extended labyrinth of words that all novels comprise, you'll be able to look at it and remind yourself of the simple brilliance of your story.

· Try not to worry too much about your desk or your window or your computer or your pen or whether or not you have any of these things. The thing about writing is that it is easier not to do than it is to do, and there are an infinite number of ways to prevent yourself from doing it. Obsessing about chairs and notebooks and whether or not it is such a good idea to always write in bed is counter-productive. The trick with writing is to do it. Shut yourself up and get on with it.

FOR MORE INFORMATION ON THIS ARTICLE CLICK HERE

"adium webcam 1.3" - Because if anyone knows about whether Adium 1.3 has webcam support, it'll be me. For what it's worth, it doesn't, which is a good thing; it must be hard enough to put up with my drunken bitching over MSN without having to watch something that looks like Peter Gabriel crossed with Babe the sheep pig swigging JD and cokes before pausing to sing Godley and Creme's "Cry" totally off key.

"cunty bollocks" - Yes, someone searched Google for the phrase "cunty bollocks", which until now I felt was fairly self explanatory. You're going to search for it yourself now, aren't you? Yes you are. Well, I'll save you the trouble; this place is listed on page two. So basically, someone tried to find cunty bollocks on the Internet, saw an entire page of results and thought that none of them were satisfactory, so they plumped for my website. The fucking freak.

"burger king, banking" - Fried food and finance, a combination previously seen only in Scotland, now here on Elias Q. Funtybunt's Pisspoor Pseudonym.

"adium is a piece of shit" - Now that's just a lie. Adium's damn good for what it is. It's not iChat, but then what else is? The alternatives, for me, are Microsoft Messenger for Mac, a failed abortion of an app that should either be totally rewritten or put to sleep, or aMSN, where "they" live just outside the Mayak nuclear waste dump, didn't even bother to try the abortion so that it could be failed, and were instead left with a horrifically deformed fuckup of an app that had to be handed over to its weeping parents in a jar of formaldehyde. Then there's Mercury, which is basically aMSN yet somehow worse. Adium could cause a large, metal boot to pop out from my computer desk and hoof me in the nads every time I got a new message, and I'd still be grateful that I didn't have to use any of those clients.

"Cocksit" - A new genre of porn is born! Sadly, it was born here, where people came looking for it. Sorry to disappoint anyone who came to a WordPress.com blog looking for people sitting on cocks, but they tend to frown on hardcore fuckbanging here.

""pete burns"" - The undead fuck? If you came here for the latest happenings of everyone's favourite once-suicidal gaypop frogman, you're shit out of luck. Shame, since he's one of the few people in the universe who could stand next to me and make me look attractive. They could stab me, nail a dead baby to my face, strip me naked, make me jiggle non-stop for four hours and make me read out the lyrics to every Anal Cunt song ever in an excited tone of voice and I'd still be marginally sexier than Pete fucking Burns, I swear. Or not.

"greenbee telecoms review" - See, here's something I can help with! My review is basically that the speed's good, the customer service is OK-ish, the prices are sadly insane and a 5GB download cap, even if you're like me and don't download lots of stuff, is quite restrictive. No complaints with the phone service so far though, and the online billing is good.

"if one bleeds while shaving pubi hair" - What the FUCK?

"waitrose take cheque" - Not from November, according to my contact at Waitrose Chesham (one Stevey Wevey Woo). I actually just paid with a cheque for the first time in ages, simply because I've just got a cheque guarantee card and wanted to get some use out of it.

"gay sailors fucking" - Sorry, but you won't find any fucking here, let alone gay sailors. I think Google might have seen my reference to a "gay little sailor hat" and mashed it up a bit to produce a truly horrifying search term.

"what microwave meals do waitrose sell?" - There's the As Good As Going Out range for posh cunts, the Black and White range for fat cunts, the Indian range for Indian cunts, the Chinese range for Chinese cunts, the Deliciously Different range for snooty cunts and some frozen ones, for cunts that own freezers. My personal recommendation is the pancetta, parmesan and spinach risotto on the Good As Going Out range.

Well, there you go. Now you know the depraved routes people take to get here. Christ knows why.

Waitrose in Thame has recently launched its 'Community Matters' scheme.

The scheme is simple. Each month, the shop divides £1,000 between three local organisations- such as community groups or schools. The shop's customers nominate which organisations can benefit from the scheme. Customers are offered a token every time they shop, which can be inserted in one of three Perspex tubes - one for each organisation. At the end of the month the tokens for each organisation are weighed and the beneficiaries receive a proportion of the cash.

The first three charities in the Thame scheme are a local nursery, a playground project and the local museum. Needless to say we will also be nominating St Joseph's Building Fund as a potential beneficiary.

The Waitrose scheme seems like a great idea to me - it's part of a national programme - as it generates much-needed funds for local organisations, influenced directly by the people affected (not to mention the additional positive publicity for Waitrose).

According to the manager of another Waitrose: 'Our customers love it, and it's raised our profile locally.'

I'm a baker.  I love to bake, though I will spare you my wistful oohings on the healing powers of the process.  My friend Isabelle’s birthday was this past Thursday.  When we worked together in New York, she gave me the highest compliment I've yet to receive baking-wise: "This is so good, it's nearly French" (she's from Paris). 

So - for her birthday, I decided to bake for her a chocolate cake.  I found my favorite recipe (it's from Gourmet - Feb 2006, maybe 2005*).  I noted the ingredients I would need and headed to my local Waitrose.  I had perused the baking aisle previously, but just out of curiosity, and therefore had ignored the pitfalls before me.  This is a store that has, at the ready, 20+ different kinds of sugar, 12 flours and all the extracts and accoutrement you could need - but not (in anyway recognizable to my American eyes) baking chocolate or frosting** or baking soda.  Nor are the items I did recognize organized in the way I have found them for over – well for a lot of years, okay***.  I paced between the aisle's two cake related sections looking for key phrases, but found none, and succumbed to asking for help****.

The clerk was very kind (I was sporting a frazzled, wild-eyed look at this point) and took me around the aisle and its neighbor until we found, what he assured me, was what I was looking for.  I nodded and smiled, but spent a great deal of energy keeping back the voices screaming "that is not - not-Dutch processed cocoa powder!  Whatever shall we do!" and “Why is the buttermilk so far away from the other dairy products?  What are they trying to tell me?  What – and why – is it hiding?”, “90% cocoa - whilst fabulous - is not the same thing as unsweetened" and "Is bi-carbonate of soda the same as Baking Soda?"  I wouldn't have normally paused so much at that one, as it was next to the baking powder which is where one usually would find it, but recently I have learned that a mistranslated ingredient can lead to far worse things than a dry crumb^.  I was feeling a wee bit low, and thought about chucking the whole process, not out of frustration, but out of fear – yes – out of the fear that I would give Miss Isa a cake unworthy of both her day and French taste buds^^.  I rallied – I mean, the worst thing that was going to happen was that it was too sweet – not the end of the world^^^.  I headed home and dutifully converted Fahrenheit to Celsius and Grams to Ounces and Cups, and the good baking elves at Gourmet did not let me down.  The cake came out pretty well.  The lack of frosting was well solved by dulce de leche as filling and Nutella as icing^^^, and while the final result looked a bit too homemade to my eyes, that is not what is important.  And no – what’s important is not that I overcame such a silly fear or that I conquered a baking aisle (with a lot of help from the lovely Waitrose man), but that Miss Isa had a good birthday, and was very happy, cause that is ultimately what it’s all about.

Bring on Thanksgiving…

*And yes - my back issues of Gourmet moved with me to London.  I would have sooner have left my Le Cruset.  I take all kitchen happenings pretty seriously.

**They have fondant - but I went to four stores - including Wholefoods and found no readymade frosting.  Mind you, I was a bit embarrassed about using canned frosting in the first place, but at 11pm, when I was to commence the icing-making, I realized that I had not purchased enough butter and the stores were very much closed). 

***Nice little “ways of seeing” palette cleanser though.  I hadn’t ever thought that there could be a different way to organize a baking aisle, as no matter what kind of market, supermarket or mega-market you shop at in the States, the Baking goods are displayed in the same order.  A little looking glass moment.

****I am not very good at this asking for help thing.  I prefer to figure things out for myself/not put anyone out.  And yes, I realize this is silly, but I'm being honest.

^I have a friend who is an excellent baker.  He is the one who introduced me to the glories of Vanilla Sugar - which I used to make him bring me by the crate load when he'd visit New York from Berlin.  A couple of weeks ago we were proofing recipes for a forthcoming project, and I stumbled when translating one of the German words.  I called him for confirmation.  He also wasn't quite sure what the right word would be in English, and he talked it out.  This is the resulting conversation:

Him: “Hmm…Aha!  You know in Agatha Christie stories…”

Me: “Um – yes”

Him: “When it’s later in the story and she needs to kill off someone during a dinner party or at cocktails”

Me: “But…”

Him: “And later when person is dead, the corpse and their food or drink smells like almonds”

Me: “What?  Are you talking about cyanide?  That is the ingredient in the cookies?  Cyanide?”

Him: “Yes!  The best translation for Bittermandelaroma is cyanide”.

We will find an alternative before we go to press.

^^^Or, in the unlikely event that that is final trigger – Woo woo!  Crisis averted.

^^^^As my friend Katharine will tell you, it is not the first time Nutella has served such a purpose…

Got my broadband equipment through from Greenbee today, a decent D-Link router - not a patch on my old Netgear thing, but it works fine and does what I need it to do. The speed of the service, however, is at present midway between "atrocious" and "pathetic", with the speed topping out at about 2 megabit down. Not that it matters, I'm not a huge consumer of "Linux ISOs" (the generally accepted euphemism for porn/copyrighted music/movies when discussing why you consume so much bandwidth - e.g. "Virgin throttled my bandwidth because I was downloading so many Linux ISOs" - yeah, sorry Slashdot, you're convincing nobody) and the most bandwidth intensive thing I do is the odd use of Steam to play a few games. So, basically, "adequate", and I'm hoping the speed will improve soon enough.

Obligatory personal bollocks; my cat is irritating the nads off me. She's decided she'll now go outside, but she won't come back. So, for the second time in a row, I've had to go hunting around in blackness for a small, fuzzy black animal so I can bring her in. It's frustratiny like trying to find a specific piece of hay in a haystack; a piece of hay that scuttles away to a new, even less visible position whenever you get near it.

She shat on the floor again, too. I'm getting all the problems of the cat going outside and none of the benefits. C'est la vie.

Ok - the cat is out of the bag...my master plan has been revealed in a blog post (see the excerpt from the ‘Kitchen' chapter).

I am waging a war against the hefty retailers, supermarkets in particular, and I want ‘you' to sign up as trusty warriors - but we'll be using words, not swords and you know what ‘they' say about that...

"True, This! -
Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold
The arch-enchanters wand! - itself a nothing! -
But taking sorcery from the master-hand
To paralyse the Cæsars, and to strike
The loud earth breathless! - Take away the sword -
States can be saved without it!"

(Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1839 for his play Richelieu; Or the Conspiracy.)

On the last page of the sneak preview of my ‘Kitchen' chapter, you will have seen one of my ‘Letters for Change'.  It's laid out like an email in the book. There are several ‘Letters for Change' dotted throughout the book, but this one is my favourite.

This ‘Letter for Change' calls for the store in question to provide their customers with receptacles so they can deposit unwanted, superfluous packaging.  Ideally, there would be one for cardboard, one for plastic and anything else would be a bonus! 

It would allow you to leave behind those plastic four-pack holders for cat food or beans, the cardboard wrapper that holds your yoghurts and the irritating cellophane that embraces your cucumber.

I urge you to copy it out adding the details of your local stores, MP, BBC radio stations etc, speak to your friends about it too, seek their support, then post or email your correspondence to the relevant parties.

Depending upon their response, you might like to take things on a stage further - see below.

You see, you are not legally obliged to take any of this packaging home with you and you have a perfect right to leave it at the point of sale.

My hopes with this exercise are simple; optimistic, but simple.

1. The stores in question should accept their corporate social responsibility for thoughtful recycling of this unwanted and very often superfluous packaging, by giving their customers receptacles to deposit it in, at the point of sale.
2. If not, they might face a wave of disgruntled customers, who exercised their right to leave said packaging at the till, for the store staff to organise a swift disposal of, which I suspect might cause a kafuffle, (especially if there were a dozen people doing synchronised unwrapping at several tills at the same time - not a suggestion, just a thought...).
3. If this were to become a ‘bit of a faff', I suspect the retailers would soon tire of their customers kicking back and saying ‘NO' to the excess packaging on their goods; particularly once they realise they are paying over the top of the price of the produce, just to take the wrapping home and throw in the bin! 
4. Further, the retailers might eventually reconsider the products they stock and give the consumers what many of them want - their goods without all of the wrap!

To effect positive change on a national scale is clearly an enormous undertaking, but I'm not a girl to aim low. 

I truly believe we consumers have the ability to make ourselves clearly heard and we can make the retailers rethink their environmental policies in favour of their customers. 

If we are to make a ripple in the pond of our modern culture, we are going to have to pull together, get support from our friends and neighbours, get writing, carry out our action and cause a little organised chaos!

Who's in?

Rubbishly yours,

TSx

Find your Member of Parliament.

Find your local BBC Radio station.

PS: Environmental policies?  Let's see them in action!

Asda

Marks & Spencer

Sainsbury

Tesco

Waitrose

I managed to negotiate with my landlord that my rent is to be taken out after HSBC's payday on the 20th. Meaning, I don't need to pay any rent this month, because I already paid my month's rent on the 16th. Meaning, I'm not overdrawn any more. Meaning, BOOYAH. Previously, my plan was to be overdrawn until September 2009, whereupon I'd start kicking the shit out of my credit card balance until I was debt free, as soon as which I'd use all the spare money I'd freed up to start saving for the construction of my long-term project, a big house made out of golden hookers and cocaine. Now, I can start smacking some balance off my credit card pretty much straight away, which means not only can I start saving for my druggy-shiny-hooker house sooner, but I'll be able to save up just a little bit more so I can get some turrets put on top. Turrets made of something befitting a palace made of sex workers and drugs - coffee cake, probably. Or those little creamy amaretti and coffee circle things that look like little chocolate mousses that Waitrose sell on their patisserie counters, I've not quite decided.

This, of course, is all fiction; I have no plans to build a giant house made of cocaine and sex workers, as it would inevitably attract people wanting to film rap videos, and I'd have to spend my retirement punching them in the face rather than admiring the work of master cocaine craftsmen. No, I'll probably be saving for retirement or something. Or a giant cake. Or a giant one of the little amaretti and coffee circle things, which on balance I'd probably prefer to the coke house as it wouldn't make my nose fall off.

Erm, yes. What wasn't fictional was the night out I had to celebrate my being overdrawn. £40 worth of night out, for fucks sake. It would be a delicious irony if I went overdrawn to celebrate being overdrawn, but I don't even have that. (HSBC, I'm putting you on notice - if you sack me, I'm withdrawing the entirety of my £400 overdraft limit and getting totally wankered till I'm dead in the face. No, I'm lying, I won't. But still, don't sack me.)

I'm being quite unfairly miserable here, I actually had a decent night out; met some interesting people, drank quite heavily, saw a couple of Trosepeeps and had two disastrously unhealthy meals courtesy of Burger Inn and Southern Fried Chicken. The former, for what it's worth, sells a fucking excellent quarter pounder with chips, and the latter chucked in loads of freebies while I was in there. It was probably quite inadvisable though, as my chest feels like it's about to explode and horrific memories of the British Heart Foundation's "Watch your own heart attack" ad keep flitting through my mind. The vodka and Red Bull probably doesn't help either.

Also, while at the Misty Moon, one of the bartenders saw me and asked if I wanted a single JD and coke (my usual drink). This is great; I can go in there and order "the usual", making me both slightly cool and also an obvious pissant at the same time. I've made it.

But... yes. I'm going to go and drink some Diet Pepsi (superior to Pepsi Max, I'll have you know) and then try and sleep. Ha ha, ha ha ha ha.

Incidentally, after mentioning rap videos a while back I've got to say that I'm excited by the news that Anonymous, the ethereal protest group, have taken a break from protesting Scientology to attack a far worthier enemy; Soulja Boy, whose MySpace was filled with shitporn and profile music was replaced with Rick Astley. Well fucking done. Soulja Boy is a prick, his music is absolute horseshit and if I wanted an image to represent both his output and fanbase, someone gleefully gulping down the effluence from a gushing arsehole would probably be the best anyone can do. Well done, Anonymous.

A spokesman for Superquinn and its owners, Select Retail Holdings (SRH), said "more than one" major British supermarket group had approached Goldman Sachs after the investment bank handled the sale of Bernard McNamara's 14.5 percent stake in the chain in the spring.

"There was a disposal earlier this year from one of the original investors and it would appear that on the back of that there have been some expressions of interest," he said.

He declined to comment further beyond stating that SRH was "not actively looking to sell the business".

Superquinn has 23 stores and a 7 percent share of the Irish grocery market.

Irish newspapers have put a price tag on the business of around 450 million euros (360 million pounds) and named possible suitors as Waitrose, owned by the John Lewis Partnership, Asda, owned by Wal-Mart Stores, and J Sainsbury.

However, a spokeswoman for Waitrose said the retailer had not made an approach. Asda and Sainsbury declined to comment.

The newspapers said competition rules would probably prevent Tesco, the UK's largest retailer, from buying Superquinn as it is already the second-biggest player in the Irish grocery market. Tesco also declined to comment.

Although not quite as conspicuous as an Eastern European woman stalking around Kew Gardens in stilletos, I wasn't dressed for the activity, and looked like a toxic, urban mother trying to show her child that fruit doesn't grow in Waitrose refrigerators. Which I'm not, because he knows full well it rots in plastic Morrison punnets.

Incidentally, if there is a more spiritual way to spend 20 minutes, I have yet to find it.

At the end of our romp there was somehow a surfeit. Who, I mused, could be the deserving recipient?

Of course, the ideal candidates took less than 30 seconds to suggest themselves, after which I repaired to my parents', where I decanted the booty into a vitamin pot, cleverly wrapped in dyed-green pipe cleaners.

I then fashioned beetles from the peeled labels of Bonne Maman apricot jars and attached them at right angles, with the wire twists from a cornflakes packet.

Finally, I cut around a picture of Chelsy Davy, from a Mail on Sunday magazine and stuck an unsuccessful lottery ticket on the back of it.

This provided a suitable background for the following missive, endorsed by the counterfeit signature of my mother:

Pretty things in paper

That would be ace.

This was a fucker. I had banked, and indeed taken out debts and moved out of home and PLANNED FUCKING EVERYTHING, around being paid more than that. About £150 more, actually. And after discussion with the personnel manager (helpful hint: "Maybe you should have waited to move out") it appeared that I was fucked and it would stay that way.

So I've had to ponce money off my mum. Money she can hardly afford as it is, but that will be repaid. It also chucks the whole independence thing straight out the fucking window. Joy.

But anyway. When my face has stopped dribbling blood, I'm going to go and get absolutely shitfaced. So shitfaced, hopefully, that I forget I ever worked at Waitrose and won't even know what a Waitrose is. Hopefully.

It's a handy vegetarian addition to my picnic / packed lunch recipe repertoire.

Butternut squash and blue cheese bread

*Any creamy blue cheese such as dolcelatte, gorgonzola etc. will do just as well; here I happened to have some Stilton left over from Christmas haunting the freezer.

Gently stretch out the ball of dough on an oiled swiss roll tin - or toaster oven tray - coaxing it towards the edges.  It will relax and stretch further so don't be anxious about this.

Strew the cheese and squash over the surface of the dough, padding the filling towards the edges.  Scatter with the shredded sage, then make a papoose by bringing the long edges of the dough to meet over the top and press them together to seal so the cheese doesn't leak out when it melts in the oven. At this point it will not look at all promising, but have no fear.  Sprinkle chopped nuts, if using, across the seam and press them lightly into the dough so they stick.

Bake in a hot oven (450F, 200C, Gas 7) for about 30 minutes, basting halfway through with a little olive (or hazelnut/walnut if you have it) oil for a delicately crunchy crust: cover the nuts with a strip of foil if they're browning too fast (or blackening in my case, one hazard of using a toaster oven).

Cool, loosen the bottom with a palette knife, then cut into slices or wrap the whole in foil to slice later.

The sage makes a delicous ménage à trois with the blue cheese and squash, which the richly nutty pecans turn into a veritable orgy of flavours, or for an enjoyable alternative you could try swinging with rosemary and walnuts instead: a bit of gustatory promiscuity can produce some pretty interesting offspring.

For a punchy packed lunch just add a handful of rocket leaves and for a picnic add whatever you like, but the way this British summer's been shaping up you'll be needing a blanket, windbreak, hot water bottle - and your head examined: it's blowing a gale as I type this.

A note to British readers: some branches of Waitrose sell frozen butternut squash, which is pretty darn handy for this recipe as it'll cook in the microwave in 4 minutes - and there's no skin to deal with!

This post is my first-ever entry for the WTSIM... summer picnic blogging event.

St Austell Brewery is celebrating a triple success for its flagship Tribute Ale after it was named as one of the UK's top ten ales, clinched a national sales deal with Waitrose and smashed its sales records for the seventh successive year.

Tribute's achievement in making it into the coveted top ten of the UK's premium cask ales is based on sales volumes in Britain's pubs and means it is the first Cornwall- or Devon-brewed beer ever to make it into the national chart compiled by the Nielsen Company, the world's leading provider of marketing information and audience measurement.

The national deal with Waitrose will see Tribute sold in selected larger stores across the country and means even more people can taste for themselves why Tribute has enjoyed such meteoric growth since its launch in 2001. It comes in addition to existing national listings for Tribute with Asda and Sainsbury as well as being sold across the South West in Tesco, Co-op, Spar and Thresher stores.

It has all added up to a boom in Tribute sales which have soared 25 per cent on last year and led to the Brewery having just completed the second major expansion of its brewing facilities at St Austell in the last two years. Two massive new fermentation vessels have been craned into the Brewery in addition to a pair installed in 2006, which soon reached full capacity. The latest expansion now gives St Austell the capacity to brew up to two million pints each month.

Neil Whelpton, Buyer - Beers and Cider for Waitrose said: "Tribute is becoming an increasingly successful brand nationally and we are delighted to have agreed with St Austell Brewery to add this fine Cornish ale to the selection of quality beers offered by Waitrose.

"Tribute offers our customers a distinctive and authentic regional ale and is a welcome addition to our carefully selected range of beers available in-store."

James Staughton, Managing Director of St Austell Brewery, said: "This is great news and a fantastic achievement in such a short time. Tribute's popularity reflects the skills, dedication and attention to quality through each stage of the process from grain to glass. We select only top quality ingredients many of which are grown in Cornwall to be brewed by Roger Ryman and his skilled team. Once brewed, all our distribution depots and our pubs are Cask Marque accredited and we take great care to support and train publicans and their bar staff to help ensure they serve customers a perfect pint of Tribute every time. Tribute's success at a national level is something Cornwall and the South West should all be proud of."

Research by industry analysts Nielsen for trade publication The Morning Advertiser found that against a national fall of five per cent in beer sales (and eight per cent for lagers) premium cask ales were bucking the trend with a 0.4 per cent rise. Tribute's inclusion within the top ten of premium cask ales comes following a study for The Publican earlier this year which listed Tribute for the first time among the UK's top drinks brands, putting it alongside international brands such as Pernod and Jim Beam.

The last 18 months have seen significant growth in Tribute's profile regionally after it was named the South West's favourite beer in British Beer Awards run by Cask Marque and the Daily Telegraph.

Tribute is also the official beer of South West rugby through its sponsorship of the Tribute Leagues and this has helped drive the popular "Tribute - You've Earned It" marketing campaign which is playing a key role in driving sales.

Nationally, as well as increasing off-sales through deals like Waitrose, Tribute is continuing to expand its popularity as a cask ale and at any one time there will be more than 1,000 pubs across the UK carrying Tribute behind the bar either as one of their regular beers or as a guest ale.

Notes to Editors

L-R: Jeremy Mitchell, Head of Marketing; James Staughton, Managing Director of St Austell Brewery and Roger Ryman, Head Brewer.

St Austell Brewery - www.staustellbrewery.co.uk

• Founded in 1851, St Austell Brewery is known to be one of the oldest businesses in Cornwall
• It is one of only 30 Independently Family Owned Brewers in the UK
• The company owns 168 pubs
• It is the South West's largest wholesale distributor of beer, wines and spirits, serving more than 2000 free trade accounts, from pubs, clubs, hotels and other licensed outlets in Cornwall, Devon, Somerset and Dorset
• The company employs up to 1200 people including part-time and seasonal staff
• The company brews four regular real ale beers: Tribute, Tinners, IPA and HSD
• There are two keg versions: Cornish Cream and Duchy
• The bottled beer range consists of HSD, Tribute, Admiral's Ale and Clouded Yellow
• The company markets its real ales nationally
• The company also distributes a full range of national brands of beers and a full range of wines and spirits under the Walter Hicks label
• The company has eight distribution depots - St Austell, Bude, Heathfield, Ilfracombe, Isles of Scilly, Redruth, Newquay and Cullompton
• The company is a recognised centre of excellence for training, accredited by the British Institute of Innkeeping (BII), offering a wide range of courses to people who work in the licensed trade

If you found this story interesting please press the button below to bookmark using one of the many social bookmarking sites. If you would like to keep up to date with news as it happens, why not subscribe to our RSS feed at the top of the right hand column?

I think it's lack of sex. Yes, you may indeed be wondering how a man as charming, handsome and well toned as me could possibly not be getting any, and if you are then you must be fucking kidding me. After a brief period of confusion it appears I'm single again, and during that ever so brief period I started blogging my fucking arse off. Related? Nah. Both just symptoms of the far larger problem that I'm a massive nerd, which I'm sure nobody saw coming.

Things I did today anyway:

• Received a phone call from Greenbee Telecoms to tell me that I don't have a phone line in the flat and so will need to pay £115 to get one hooked up, thus sinking me further into my overdraft. I could be going up to two weeks without Internet. I'll probably go mad and start daubing a crude representation of Slashdot ("US Government Conspires To Let RIAA Rape Your Children Using A Coin-Operated Rape Machine Powered By Windows Vista") on the wall in my own blood. Or even worse, get into Twitter, which could only ever be a tragedy for just about everyone.
• Applied for a loan from HSBC, who then referred it because I'll be working for them. I probably won't get approved. Either way, meh.
• Purchased a fridge and a microwave. This entire transaction took 5 minutes and cost me £230. I could probably have got a cheaper one of each elsewhere but after so much clerical work telling everyone where I'm going to (joint top prize to HSBC Insurance for fucking up a Direct Debit and meaning I have to wait for it to be fixed before I can change the address and Virgin Media for not recognising that the flat exists) I just didn't care any more, which is why I walked into Domesco in Chesham and asked for the cheapest one of each and could they deliver it, please? Sorted.
• Noted that Waitrose sell colanders for £12, and if they think anyone's going to fucking buy a colander for £12 that doesn't either perform oral sex or come encrusted with jewels and fabulous riches they must be batshit fucking bonkers. Also noted that Circle 7 kitchenware is of reasonable quality and costs about thruppence.
• Cleaned the shower at the flat. Scrubbed for 5 minutes with Waitrose Power Bathroom Cleaner, then took the shower head to the tiles and was immensely satisfied as brown shite sloughed off the walls and down the drain to be replaced with shiny tiles. I am immensely fucking sad.
• Wrote a pointless meandering blog post.
• Started packing some stuff. I have too many CDs and DVDs and will have epic fun trying to find inventive ways of storing them. My room is full of boxes and looks like a warehouse full of tripping hazards and wires.

Why the hell are you still reading this? Meh.

I've had a small spanner thrown into the works of my whole leaving-home-whoop-de-doo scheme, in that my preferred plan to get a fridge (essential for storing cheapish food) and microwave (essential for preparing cheapish food) has failed miserably, this plan being "ponce them off someone else" and failed miserably meaning that the former is built in and cannot be removed and the latter is not but is irretrievably broken. As fixing microwaves is probably expensive and most likely involves the use of ancient magic incantations, I've resigned myself to the fact that I may have to live in my overdraft for a little bit and buy a new fridge and microwave. Of all the days I could choose to lose my credit card in a silly little machine it has to be the one where I have to make several purchases which I cannot directly afford at present but will need to make at some point.

The real fucker is that I put some savings into paying off selfsame credit card, which means that 200 quid which could previously have been converted into a fridge is now converted into space on a credit card which I can't fill because I was a twat and lost it in a fucking payphone. Well done, me. Also, the oven bit of my oven doesn't work, which is just as well because it's extremely dirty and cleaning greasy meat residue out of an oven is right up there in my list of things I would enjoy doing with performing cunnilingus on Ann Widdecombe while being fucked up the arse with an immense iron rod. The best I could hope for is that the fumes from the Mr Muscle would give me some form of dizzying high, although even then that would probably only be because of some horrific form of brain damage.

Other than that, leaving home scheme is working well. Meals are planned out, and luckily consist of more than just Pot Noodles and ketchup - even at Waitrose £30 a week goes quite a way. Fuck, I might even be able to afford some cheap shitty lager from time to time. The world is my oyster.

Still not sleepy. Meh.

As an aside, a payphone nicked my credit card. So if you're wondering why there's an HSBC credit card in the payphone outside of Circle 7 and thinking of going on a massive spending spree with it, don't fucking bother because it's reported lost and you'll look like a twat with a pair of tweezers in a phone box. Berk.

Seriously, I'm amazed. I thought that on my salary (now £14.7k) I'd be languishing either at home or on the council waiting list waiting for houses that I am eternally too childless and sexless to qualify for (as an aside the gutting of council housing through right-to-buy, leaving no housing stock left for single people, is one of the main reasons why I believe that Tories should be punched until they are dead, alongside all the other reasons of course.) But no. Not two days after HSBC called me and said they'd give me a job with a salary I can actually bloody live on, I've been to see a flat and will be going to see it again tomorrow, and if the landlord is very lucky then he will be receiving a nice cheque made out for the princely sum of four hundred and fifty pounds. And then, a week after that, I will be living on my lonesome.

See, like I say, I thought this would be out of my reach. I thought I'd have to find someone who's insane enough to want to live with me (a population that shrinks every time I open my mouth) to help me pay the bills, but FUCK. I'll actually do what I've been wanting to do for fucking ages and be independent, and pay my own bills, and be responsible for myself. It'll be good. I'll be happy. And I'll have the epic joy of sorting through lots of broadband companies and things and calling up various banks and whathaveyou. having a job at HSBC. I applied for it, I waited four months, I interviewed for it, and I got it. Waitrose, while filled to the brim with lovely people and at least a decent laugh, pays shit and offers little in the way of progression. So, bye bye Troseting; hello working behind a bank counter for fewer hours and more money. Woops.

This was my fourth Godchild alongside my own sister's two boys, and the daughter of one of my best friends from university. This christening was slightly different, however, in that it took place in Royston Vasey, and in a Catholic Church. Indeed, the Catholic Church where C and I were married nearly fifteen years ago.

The christening had been long and somewhat fraught in the planning. When you have four sisters (mother and three aunties) and two grandmothers, the clothes shopping alone can be perilous and tedious. I think that the youngest sister, R, had the right idea - she decided to opt out and go on holiday in France instead. Perhaps it was just a happy coincidence, but, I am not entirely sure.

So, that left just three sisters to a) confirm that all would be wearing summer dresses, b) ensure that colour schemes and styles were communicated so that there was no duplication and no clashing, and c) ensure the procurement of matching shoes, bags, jewelry, etc. and, d) kit out their better halves (husband and partners) in complimentary outfits. The main retail outlets of Cheshire and Derbyshire must have been wringing their hands with glee.

That said, I was immensely relieved and proud of C's shopping. She bought the first dress that she tried on and the first pair of shoes - although the shoe shopping was spread over two weekends and two venues due to the lack of availability of her size (pixie) at the first emporium. Normally, I would have been dragged around half of the shops in the city over a period of three or four weekends. Even C's trips to the hairdresser, pedicure, and leg waxer seemed to go smoothly. And, she looked gorgeous.

I was also kitted out with a new linen suit and shirt. I washed my hair and I had a shave. I'm worth it.

The planning for the after-church party seemed to be a little more hectic and frantic. No doubt this was due to my mother-in-law's desire to relieve her daughter of as much of the burden as possible, with her having her hands tied somewhat with taking care of the baby. I am sure that it had nothing at all to do with inter-family rivalry and the need to be seen to put on a good show ;)

Consequently, the Waitrose Entertaining range was exhausted, and there was more than plenty to feed the twenty or so guests that went back to the house......and the entire population of the rest of the estate........for at least a week or so.  Whatever, at least the toffee meringue, apple pie and chocolate fudge cake that C and I provided seemed to go down well.

C and I had to ferry the desserts to the in-laws, where we got changed and met up with Debs (sister-in-law) and Smithy (partner) before making our way to the church. Smithy was also sporting a light-coloured linen suit (although his was hand made in Bahrain, while mine was off-the-peg from John Lewis). Together we looked like Crockett and Tubbs out of the original Miami Vice. Or, to be precise, how Crockett and Tubbs might look in their early 40s. The similarity was further strengthened by the fact that we were both driving Audi TTs and had glamorous ladies on our arms.

Smithy and I were both feeling a little mischevious and anxious about the Catholic Mass ahead of the christening. But, neither of us were granted permission to go to the pub and catch up with them all later :(

Fortunately the Church did not burst into flames as we entered. The floor of the aisle did not open up as we walked to our pews. The service was bereft of lightening bolts. The priest was friendly if a little camp. He pushed the boundaries somewhat talking about the romance and love affair between Jesus and Paul. He might not have been out of place in the American Anglican Church. Otherwise, he offered sufficient ritual and good humour to keep the audience/congregation interested/amused.

There were two baptisms on the day. Harry's and Damien from the Omen. I kid not. He was quite a bit older than Harry and stomped and screamed and shouted through much of the ceremony. For the rest of the time he glared suspiciously around him with "that Damien look". He was accompanied by two black dogs with red eyes at all times. I kid not.

Harry, in contrast, was angelic throughout. He was, of course, too young to be phased by the fact that he seemed to be dressed in a miniature judo outfit. He waved to his adoring fans at one point. Cute. He was suitably engrossed in the candle which was lit in his honour. I was the candle bearer and manfully carried on through the pain of the hot wax dripping through my fingers. And, he only cried when he was nearly half drowned by the priest. His hair was a mess after all that dunking and laying on and smearing of various oils. Poor chap.

C did a sterling job of the reading. She is not known as "the voice" for nothing.

Back at the party the two families suitably split apart - theirs inside (apart from the occasional smoker), ours outside, and the odd friend in between. My mother-in-law bridged the gap somewhat by sitting just inside the conservatory. But, she was sufficiently out of the way that she did not spot my father-in-law sneaking an extra glass of wine or two, and an extra slice of apple pie. As might be expected of several generations of teachers on both sides of the family, there was much reminiscing and explaining about whose elder brother or younger sister was taught by who. Everyone muddled along quite nicely. The drink and Abba's Greatest Hits seemed to keep everyone in a reasonable mood. As the wine and beer began to flow, the accents of C and her sisters became positively more Glossop.

All in all though, it went swimmingly and was enjoyed by all.

And, I am looking forward to getting Harry his first drum kit, his first set of boxing gloves, his first pint.......oh the pressure of being a role model and moral compass.......

Good luck, Harry, you'll need it.

New Frü Strawberry and Raspberry Trifles follow on from the success of Gü Chocolate Trifles, launched in May 2008 and recently nominated a Must Stock Product by The Grocer.

The new Frü Trifles will add value to the growing fruity range and offer different consumer eating occasions, from picnics to sitting in front of the telly. They also aim to drive further interest in the trifle market which is estimated to be worth £97m (source: AC Nielson June 2008).

Revolutionising the traditional trifle market, Frü's new trifles feature fruit at the top as opposed to the bottom, giving consumers an instant fruit fix. They're made with juicy berries, Bourbon vanilla custard, fresh whipped cream and vanilla sponge. Like their chocolate counterparts, Frü Strawberry & Raspberry Trifles are presented in 100% recyclable pots and striking white packaging.

This month also sees the launch of new Frü Seasonal Summer Puds which feature a compote of six summer fruits, including raspberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, blackberries, blueberries and strawberries, a light sponge and a fruity syrup.

With less than 100 calories in each pud, they offer consumers a lighter, refreshing eat and deliver an intense fruit fix. Frü Seasonal Summer Puds are presented in stylish ramekins, perfect for stylish entertaining or as a midweek treat.

These new puds form part of Frü's aggressive NPD programme which will include more new pudding launches throughout the year.

Becs Sears, Marketing Manager of Frü Fruity Puds and Gü Chocolate Puds, comments: “The Frü brand is worth approximately £5m in the UK and it is predicted that these exciting new products will add an extra £4m to the brand. There is clearly a big opportunity in the market for premium fruity puddings that deliver quality and innovation and Frü is perfectly poised to fill it.”

Frü is investing £200k in marketing support for the new launches which includes sampling, a new Frü website, print advertising and PR.

Frü Strawberry & Raspberry Trifles retail at £2.39 for 2 x 115g trifles and are available from Asda, Sainsbury's, Tesco, Booths, Waitrose and Ocado.

Frü Seasonal Summer Puds retail at £2.99 for 2 x 90g ramekins and are also available from Sainsbury's, Tesco, Waitrose, Booths and Ocado.