Dunn's: Fabulous Baker Boys (And Girls)

It is a truth universally acknowledged - I love cake. Big fan of toast. Love a bit of crumpet. All about the baked goods, me. Living in Crouch End affords ample opportunity for buying this stuff. Over the years, I've whittled down the places that are worthy of my hard-earned for all things cakey and floury, and right at the top of the list is a local institution and treasure - Dunn's bakery.

When I heard an outlet of Gail's (of Hampstead fame) was opening in Crouch End, I was pretty anxious for Dunn's. According to my friend Massimo at The Haberdashery, the opening of Gail's actually caused huge excitement among his clientele. Yup, the Bugaboo Brigade were all hysterical over Gail and her forthcoming goody attractions.

Needless worry. Having done a taste test experiment with the Brummie (test consisted of bread and butter - what else?), it can be confirmed that the spelt and honey loaf from Dunns, weighing in at £1.70, knocks the wheat-free socks off a loaf half the size / almost twice the price (£3.20 for a tiny loaf I could eat at one sitting? Are you off your rocker, Gail?) from Gail's. This loaf from Dunn's is bread nirvana, wheatless ambrosia, bread fit for a Queen. Gail's had just opened when the taste test took place, and The Brummie and I also carried out a cuppa test. The coffee was good, but the staff seemed a bit clueless and the café layout was cramped. I wasn't surprised, only a few weeks later, to see they had closed down while shopfitters rectified what was obviously a bad bit of planning. In the interest of fairness, I know Gail chucks out a lovely pastry - when the NYC massive were over, they brought some back to Disgracelands, and I happily polished one off (ancient proverb: always put a gift cake in the mouth).

I had a lovely Dunn's experience today. Running my errands, I'd popped to buy a puncture repair kit to fix my wellingtons for this coming weekend. I refuse to buy new wellies, I'm a resourceful girl and will be thrilled if my make-do-and-mend capabilites are inventive enough to give my old rubber boots another lease of life. Re-cycling indeed...sorry, I digress. So, I've spent some cash in the bike shop, popped to M&S to buy flowers, and on the way back, I pop into Dunn's for some of that lovely bread. Imagine my dismay when I realise I only have 85p left in my pocket. I'm in a bit of a rush, so I asked, slightly red of face, if I'd be able to pay by card. "Oh, of course, no problem" replied the sweet young thing behind the counter. I laughed, saying I'd thought it a bit ridiculous, and also lazy of me, not to just run to the cashpoint. She assured me she didn't mind. "I had one man ask if he could pay for a bread roll with his card", she confided in a conspiratorial tone, "for 26p. So, really - don't worry", she added.

She took my loaf off to cut (medium sliced, if you're wondering), then came back to pick up another loaf, and cut that too. She put them both on the counter. "I didn't cut that first one very well, you can have them both for the same price". I was overcome with joy at this point, and the rather handsome male staff member standing next to her wanted to know what she'd done to make me so pleased. Not wanting to drop her in any sort of bakery shit, I just said "she's done a very nice thing and she'll probably go to heaven", to which he replied "I doubt it, she's my sister." The customer next to me laughed at this, and it was yet another reason why Dunn's gets my spends - the staff are absolutely lovely. A big thank you to Imogen and Lewis for making my day - I came straight back home and had two slices toasted, heavily spread with slightly salted butter. Perfect.

http://www.dunns-bakery.co.uk/

Debris

Many moons ago, when I was a wee thing, barely out of the school gates, and long before the birth of my second-hand empire, I used to sell stuff on fleamarkets. I'd amass stuff, then sell it on to other folks who could give it a lovely, new home. There was no car or driving licence for me back then, and so car boot sales were a thing to visit for fun, with a view to buying more crap. I loved it and still do. So, getting a call from The Brummie on Friday evening, suggesting a team-up to expunge old tat from the back of a motor seemed like a sterling idea.

Having been a good girl on Saturday evening (a short visit to Aces & Eights at Tufnell Park to catch up with pals consisted of me drinking lime and soda, admiring the excellent 70s porn adorning the walls, and approving of the luxurious pubic hair the ladies had back then), I was up at the crack of dawn (really, if even one of you uses this phrase at me, you're history) to load Betty Ford and head off into the breaking day with Brummie in tow.

The Princess May School car boot sale on Kingsland Road (Stoke Newington end) is a jolly good little affair. Well organised, run by friendly proper Londoners, good tea stall (I had a delicious bit of carrot cake for £1.20 - bargain), arrive by 6.45am, all over by 2pm. Worth getting up for, and a pleasure to spend half a day in good-humoured Brum company. Of all the boot sales I've actually stood at in London, this is probably one of the nicest. Not too big and cheap at a tenner. Others I've parked up at are:

• Kilburn/Maida Vale St Augustines - if you want to feel thoroughly hassled by people wanting to steal your old life for 5p or less, go ahead. One conversation I took part in went a little bit like this: Buyer: "How much for these shoes?" Shoes in question, brand new orange suede sandals, still with tag on, worth £40. Me: "£3." Buyer "Will you take a pound?" Me, patiently and quite brightly: "Oh...er, no, they're new and current season, well worth £3." Buyer: "Hmmm. Well, I have a pound." Me, less patient: "The sandals are £3." Buyer: "Won't you take a pound?" Me: "No, I'm sorry." Buyer walks away. Buyer comes back. Buyer: "Will you not take a pound?" Me, actually looking at Buyer now like she is unhinged, and with a disdain I might reserve for David Cameron or that pasty, pudding-faced chap who sang for Keane: "I'm afraid I'd rather give them to Oxfam than let you have them for a pound." And she didn't mind. Or, in fact, stump up the asked-for £3. Maybe she was mad. But then, I smiled, because I should have known it was all Part Of The Game. That said, if you're going as a shopper, it's worth a nosy. I've had some right laughs standing there, but never made much cash.

• Battersea Car Boot (Battersea Park School): this is in a different league. It was my venue of choice to rid myself of virtually everything I owned pre-Oz trip. I made a small fortune over a couple of weeks. If you've got good stuff to sell, particularly old stuff / collectibles, this is the place to go. It's expensive, though - if you know your goodies are likely to appeal to a broad crowd, book to be among the first lot of cars in (about £35) and you get to set up before the dealers can start hounding you. All very civilised too - Sunday trading and you don't have to be there until 10.30am to set up.

If you fancy doing a car boot, this list from Time Out has others I've shopped at, all worth a bit of a jaunt:

http://www.timeout.com/london/feature/1193/londons-best-car-boot-sales

I was sitting here in the late afternoon sunshine, on my sofa, tip-tapping away, and suddenly, The Faces "Debris" filled the room. Is this what 'serendipitous' means? Whatever. It's perfect. One of my favourite songs from "A Nod's As Good As A Wink...", with the wonderful Ronnie Lane (my favourite tiny Face) singing lead, backed by Rod The Mod, written about his Dad shopping on a Sunday morning market. I'd named this post something relatively witty, but Ronnie has inspired me with a much sweeter title. Brought a tear to my eye, as Mr Lane often can. Or perhaps it's the effect of that early start...

Love him. RIP.

Post-Holiday Funk

No, it's not a lost album by Sly And The Family Stone. It's a nasty malaise I seem to have picked up. There's no instant remedy it seems (so, no haranguing the patient, thank you). Imagining myself as Doctor Quinn (I said Quinn) Medicine Woman (chamois leather top / lot of hair / cowboy hat), or Hattie Jacques as Matron (that's more like it), I prescribed the following:

Mmmm. Nice, tasty medicine.

(The chips and a lovely vodka tonic, not Lady Married's rack).

Further pick-me-ups included self-administration of a large bollocking and an early night. Now on the road to a complete writing recovery. Thank you, well-wishers.

(Postscript: part of the recovery process was aided by cross-Atlantic Skype. Evil Hurricaine Irene is NY bound. Please leave Brooklyn alone, Irene. It contains a smashing brewery, some nice music venues, and two people I love dearly. Remember - if you're reading, write that inky letter, LouLou. Could be your last chance to write with a proper nib. I am now officially a monger of doom.)

The Plimsoll Line

Three stripe heaven.

There's something you don't know about me. Obviously, there's a lot you dont know about me. Some of you know this particular thing, though - school friends, old friends, old-skool friends. I have a lifelong love of trainers. Don't be so shocked. Us high-heelers can have a shady flat past, y'know.

I'm prompted to write following my usual mosey through the Guardian Guide this Saturday. Blogroll this week gives us a whole heap of blogs dedicated to trainers/sneakers (much as I like the word 'sneaker', I don't feel qualified to use it. I'm not American). It offers up a roll call of the great and the good pumps (love that word too) throughout the decades, and made me think about a chronology of my own hi-tops, lowcuts, runners and various other canvas, rubber and nylon variations on a theme. On one of the listed blogs, I'm completely taken aback to find there's a man living in Liverpool who trod the same footwear path as me in his youth. Uncanny - it's like reading about myself. (I've only read his blog properly since writing this, and it makes me realise how on a footwear wavelength the whole country was back in the late 70s / early 80s - truly filled my heart with joy to read his musings.)

http://shoeclassics.com/index.html

For me, must have all started with plimsolls (another corker of a word). They'll have been black. Elasticated gusset. At some point I'll have begged for white. And no doubt, Mum will have let me have them. Early junior school, I got my first proper trainers, but they were unbranded. Some odd brand, not even Hi-Tec (I have never owned any Silver Shadows, the trainer of Dads everywhere). Aged about 9, I got my first pair of branded running shoes. They were emerald green, suede and nylon, made by Gola. I loved them - they coincided with the first time I was captain of a school sports team (rounders - I can still throw a ball as far as most men I know, overarm, not some girly pussy underarm shit).

Dunlop Green Flash. Relatively cheap and not too cool back then. A resurgence about 10-15 years ago surprised and cheered me. I had about three pairs of the Gola trainers. They saw me through to high school. First pair of boy's footy trainers - Mitre Memphis. I had a pair of monkey boots too. Not trainers exactly, but worth an honourable mention, because this little tomboy loved them way back when.

Brand of champions (and me)

And then I fell for Mr Dassler's brand hook, line and sneaker. It started with Adidas Kick. Cheapest bottom-of-the-range black leather, classic three white stripes. Perfect for playing hockey on a gravel pitch. I had pair after pair of them. Also had a black vinyl Adidas sports bag with the classic trefoil. Then, I went traitor and got some Patrick Kevin Keegan endorsed footy trainers (and the matching shin pads - I am a girl, really, I am).

If they were good enough for King Kev, they were good enough for me

Now, don't be thinking I come from money, folks. I don't. But I was good at sport and my Mum was a cool bird who knew it was money well spent. If I'm busy playing hockey / netball / tennis for the school, I can't be off snogging boys and getting into trouble, surely? (I was, but don't shatter the old dear's illusions). And the second I could get a job, I did. In a sports shop. In the trainer department. And then my tastes got fancy. I had John McEnroe's Nike Wimbledon. My first pair of Nikes (Adidas will always rock my world). As soon as Adidas brought out the Los Angeles trainer, replete with a shock absorber system in the heel (what utter bollocks), I bought them. I had one pair of SL80s. Around this time, I went a bit sports casual - Fred Perry (navy, sky blue 2 stripes), brown penny loafers, blue Pods from Italy.

Give good shoe, them Italians

But once the totter of high heels took over, my buying habits abated a little. My love, however, has never abated. I currently own: Adidas Superstars (an all-time favourite - classic white, bought in LA 12 years ago), Adidas Stan Smiths (white, Velcro fastening - annoyingly, they still squeak, no matter how much leather feed / dubbing / Vaseline I rub on the fittings), Nike Air Rifts (originals, white, as soon as they launched in the UK - I had 3 pairs, sold 2), Adidas Supernova (pale blue - I thank my lucky stars when fitted for these, my style of running suits a pair of running shoes that look good, not some mental day-glo nylon madness). I recently bought some tan leather PF Flyers, but took them back the next day, knowing I'd bought them because they are a great looking pump, but would just never get the wear. I'm considering some Superga canvas in cream, to replace Converse. And unsurprisingly, I've had umpteen pairs of Converse over the years (thanks, Ramones). The Ex still laughs that my opening gambit to him all those years ago was "those Converse have the same colour rubber sole as the canvas" about the latest royal blue Jack Purcells he was wearing. My finest chat-up line ever (after "get your coat, you've pulled". I really did. And it worked.).

Happy As Larry (David) In Just My Knickers

Back to living at Disgracelands alone, I'm spending more time than is natural or healthy just sitting round in my knickers watching a lot of Larry David. This was prompted by an incident during a catch-up with my manfriends. When asked what I'd been up to by said manfriends, I replied "oh, this and that, making bunting". "Bunting?" they queried. "Yes, bunting, you know that triangle shaped stuff they hang up at village fetes", which I followed with a bit of visual description, by holding both hands up to make a V shape.

They absolutely pissed themselves. I looked in astonishment as Steve and Dave completely cracked up and didn't stop. Both huge Curb fans, it turns out there's an episode where Larry and Jeff make the same hand symbol to depict a 'huge vagina'. Discussing this with Les French (big Larry fans), I learned that the French word for bunting is fanion, pronounced 'fanny-on' which tickled me hugely. Never having got past series 4 before, I saw the episode this week. I almost cried laughing myself. Watch it and weep, readers:

Larry seems to be having an awful lot of problems in his dry cleaners too. I've had my very own Larry moment round the launderette. Normally, I'm in there every Saturday to dry bedding and towels (can't have the place looking like a laundry, potential buyers don't want to see my frillies all over the radiators...or do they?) Anyways, I hadn't been in there for a couple of weeks. Überfriendly Turkish guy who runs the place (not much English but very sweet, helps me fold my sheets) calls out "Hello there!" from the counter as I enter. I throw my bedding into the dryer and then he's calling out "I have thing for you!" and I look round thinking, "he can't mean me" and seeing if he's looking at any of the other people in there. And it's busy. But no, he definitely means me. And then he goes under the counter and brings something out.

And it's a pair of my knickers. And he holds them up. And everybody looks. And my eyes almost pop out of my head. And then, I have to laugh. "I have them from last time" he says. More laughing from me. "Thanks for keeping them safe" I replied and the whole place is smiling. Turkish guy looks very pleased with himself, having reunited knickers with their rightful arse. I leave, still laughing and congratulating myself on the fact that I'd managed to leave an immaculate pair of pretty white underfrippery, and not some hideous, massive dog-eared Mum pants (which I would never actually own, I hasten to add, in case gentlemen friends are reading).

I bet he's had them on.

Rockin' Up That Hill

Sometimes, when things don't seem so great, and I'm having a bit of a "what am I living in London for?" moment, I have a little wander down the road, through the woods and up the hill to Alexandra Palace. I sit on a bench, usually the same one, and have a look at the spectacular vista, with all of London's landmarks in clear view, and have a bit of a think. It doesn't actually fix anything, but it just seems to work in clearing a messy head. That bench has been party to every important decision I've made whilst living here, even down to what cake I might have after my tea:

Hmmm...Victoria sponge or lemon drizzle?

Welcome distraction came from recent miserable events this weekend, Alexandra Palace having its customary hand in clearing my head. After a lovely brekkie in the Haberdashery, and a spare ticket found for Camille (hooray!), a saunter up the road from Crouch End brought me, Nads and Lady Doc to Ally Pally for the ATP / Portishead curated 'I'll Be Your Mirror'. Named after the B-side to Velvet Underground's 'All Tomorrow's Parties', I can't wait until the bods at ATP get a weekender going called Heroin. Daily Mail heaven.

It all started off a bit middle-aged. We spent the first 20 minutes trying to get to grips with the one-way system round the venue. We tried to watch DD/MM/YYYY. They were ok, but as Lady Doc said, the main singer had annoying hair. We spent about 15 minutes trying to find coke. The brown fizzy stuff that comes in a can. Sure sign of middle-age when the first thing you want at a festival is a nice drink of pop and a sit-down, not a nose full of class A. And then I had a worrying moment when I couldn't remember if I'd put any knickers on. Put us in a home quick, someone, please:

Northern Rock

But things got better. We watched Beak>. They were great. They were loud and droney. They woke us up. A text from Les French - Camille managed to wangle a wristband for Nico too - bravo! Saw some classic feel-good old-school reggae played by a stage filled with dreads. Black Roots hail from Bristol and I can imagine the young Portishead gang going along in the 80s to watch these fellas skank away in some Bristol dive. There was a young bloke in a green top, dancing just in front of us. I have absolutely no idea what he could hear, but it can't have been the same reggae we were hearing. The most off-kilter jigging I've seen for ages. He had no rhythm at all. None. But he looked happy. A true case of someone dancing to his own tune.

A text came in from The Ex. Amy Winehouse had been found dead. This was sad news but not really a shock. Recent reports of her having to cancel her entire tour made you wonder if she would ever really come back from her drink and drugs battle. I had a run-in with her once. I won't go into details, just that she was incredibly rude to me and my good friends for no good reason. I soon set her straight. Shame someone closer to her couldn't set her straight on a few other things, including a way off that path to self-destruction. What a sad waste of a young, talented life.

(MF) DOOM up next. Now, some of you will be astonished to read that I like to hear some decent rap. And this was some of that. There were people in the audience wearing a mask a bit like Mr Doom, whose stage mask is based on the one worn by Russell Crowe in Gladiator, if what I read is to be believed. Sometimes, it's thought that Mr Doom sends someone else up on stage wearing the mask and they pretend to be him. It would actually be funny if he sent Russell Crowe up. But that would involve blacking up and I believe that manner of thing is frowned upon nowadays. Unless you're Papa Lazarou:

Dat you, Russell Crowe?

There was a bit of aimless wandering. We bumped into Massimo Haberdashery and the lovely Lisa. The Ex and Mister Doc had appeared. This swiftly followed by the start of PJ Harvey. Now, I've seen her play recently, and it was really busy, and well, me and Nads just got hungry. So, chips overruled goth.

Last up on Day One - our guardians for the weekend, Portishead. And right from the off, it was superb. The sound was clear as a bell, Beth Gibbon's voice, haunting and pure, rising beautifully above synth, loops and guitar. And the visuals were stunning. Assorted camera angles gave us grainy black and white filmic close-ups of Beth's face, her sublimely furrowed brow displayed in detail on the huge screens as she poured her heart out of her mouth. At one point, there was a brilliant merging of two close-ups - Adrian Utley's foot on his guitar pedal, fused with his fingers playing a spine tingling solo on his guitar. Spellbinding stuff, I couldn't look away. Last time I saw visuals this good, I was watching The Orb play, circa Little Fluffy Clouds, and I think I may have been under an influence. Towards the end of the set, Beth even jumped off stage and ran the length of the audience to shake hands with everyone. Top.

Glorious stuff.

Slow start to Day Two. Lots of toast and juice, followed by strong coffee, only just got our arses into gear in time to head up the hill for a band I've never seen, Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Sitting waiting for the doors to open, we bumped into Les French. And they'd seen the bad dancer in the green top too! But much later in the day and by the sounds of it, a whole heap worse for wear...

Brilliantly sunny day, so what better way to spend it than in a darkened room watching footage of buildings burning whilst listening to deafening, droning, swirling, bowel-budging minor chords belting out? We managed about an hour and a half. Then Nads said she actually felt a bit depressed, so we went outside and let the sunshine work its magic. There was a bit of listening to shellac (no, not Steve Albini brilliance - some old fella in a bow tie playing 78s on a gramophone), followed by a wander by the boating lake. The boating lake has huge swan-shaped pedalos. If some clever snapper had persuaded Michael Gira to cram his band into one of those, it would have been a genius bit of thinking and a photographic coup for ATP. I'm praying it's out there:

"What do you mean "Michael Gira said no"? Chicken."

And so, back inside for more racket. I'd tried a bit of Beach House, but was disappointed. I saw them in New York a few years ago in a smaller venue and that's the size of place I'd prefer them. Caught a bit of Acoustic Ladyland - I love to see Seb Roachford drum, but I couldn't actually see a thing. And then - Swans were superb. Glad I remembered my real ear plugs today, not just some bits of bog roll shoved in my ears. They were loud and impressive. They had Thor on drums! Thor Harris - my favourite Viking drumming God! But after a day of drones and noises and top percussion, I was really in need of just good old-fashioned rock and roll. Preferably played by a band who know their stuff and strut it in a suited-and-booted sharp dressed men kinda way. Step up Messrs Cave, Ellis, Sclavunos and Casey aka Grinderman. I love these boys. I'd spotted Mr Sclavunos earlier in the day, wandering resplendent in a pink suit. The man oozes cool and he can drum. It's a bit of glamorous, lightshow filled, lyrically brilliant showbiz after so much glooooomy cool. Thank you, boys:

No Pussy Blues? This lot? Yeah, right.

And at this juncture, we did some serious flagging. Camille called me to say Nico had left already, both Doctors had gone home, so now the dilemma. To watch Portishead again, easily the performance of the weekend...or a lift home from Camille, followed by tea and toast? Now, you know me. Cut me open and you'd read 'ROCK 'N' ROLL' right through my middle, like some cavity-inducing candy bought on Blackpool seafront. But bollocks to all that. Enough's enough. So I got a nice lift to my front door from the sweetest chauffeuse in town, and curled up with a nice cuppa and some raspberry jam on toast. I'll be doing it all again in December anyway, and a girl of my advanced years has to conserve her energy. Note to self: remember to wear knickers in December. Minehead can be cold that time of year and no-one wants a glimpse of my old arse resplendent with goosebumps.

Visiting The Valleys

Wales. Land of song. Birthplace to Jones The Voice, Burton The Voice, Bassey The Voice (they give good voice, them Welsh). Oh, and Max Boyce. Just got back from the Valleys and it's started me reminiscing about bygone journeys over the border...

There was the school cottage trip. Our school holiday cottage was right in the sticks, in a little place called Cerrig Y Drudion, not far from Betwys Y Coed (great names, places in Wales. I'm proud to announce that I can say that really long place name correctly, the one they shorten to Llanfair PG). Every year, each 3rd year class got to go on a 5 day trip to Wales. You could wear your jeans (me love denim long time). My trip heralded my first case of unrequited love. I haven't suffered from much unrequited love over the years. I normally get to 'requite' it, lucky me. But this time, the object of my affection was Jason Holmes. He was sort-of romancing a girl in the class below me, she wasn't on the trip. The teachers took us all for a scary midnight walk in the woods. I said I felt a bit frightened, he said "here, hold my hand". Sigh. Always a sucker for a gentlemanly act. I bet I blushed in the darkness. And probably messed my schoolgirl panties.

Once, in the late 70s, the entire family went to Llandudno. I mean entire. Mum, Dad, eldest sister Liz, her husband Chris, their little girl Kirstie, my sister Mary, her daughter Anne-Marie, brother Joe, his wife Rosa. And me. I was 12. Oh, and my sister Helen and her new husband Yong (he's Malaysian). I use the word 'new' for good reason. It was her honeymoon. The whole family on her honeymoon. In a B&B in Llandudno. I kid you not, reader. They'd probably never even heard of the Maldives back then.

For a couple of years, I went out with a very handsome geography student. He was tall, funny and incredibly fit. He liked to climb rocks. I got to see some beautiful places with him and Wales has some spectacular climbing opportunities, particularly on the Gower peninsula. But my favourite trip was wild camping on the cliffs in Pembrokeshire. I read books and lazed in the baking sun whilst he climbed to his heart's content. It was one of the loveliest holidays I've ever had.

Today's jaunt was a day trip to Swansea to visit Dean in hospital. Once over the shock of how thin he's become since the accident just over two weeks ago, and the surprise that he's now sporting a beard and looks remarkably like Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn (phwoar), it was great to see him. I'd brought a couple of M&S ready meals along for him (personal experience reminds you that hospitals really aren't big on the imagination front when it comes to catering, particularly not when you're a vegetarian). He needs feeding up, our boy. I've absolutely no idea what I waffled on about. My usual line in bollocks. He didn't seem to mind. Good stuff at numbing more than just pain, that morphine.

The physios arrived, and this was the only bit that hurt not just him, but me too. To watch this big handsome chap, so used to being incredibly fit and independent, have to struggle with a walking frame was very hard. But he did twice his normal distance! And with such bloody cheerful good grace. I think he was showing off for me (only written that because I know it'd make him laugh). He told me that on the earlier walks, he only had a hospital gown on, with his arse hanging out. The nurses had to ask him to cover it up. And when he fell asleep without the blanket on, I think the old lady opposite got an eyeful of his black balls too (I still wince when I think of his poor bruised spuds). He's had tons of visitors, he's a popular fella. Just the night before, some of his film-set mates had rocked up. I'm imagining some kind of Carry On Matron bedlam. Rumour has it a huge amount of takeaway curry was involved and some 'adult reading matter' was stashed under his pillow. I left for my train back to London and texted him from the taxi, begging him to not let the old dear opposite catch him pleasuring himself - after her clocking his darkened parts once already, the sight of the 'end' of him might actually signal the end for her.

"Oooh, that Dean's well lush. D'you think the English will let us keep him, Blodwyn?"