It's high time for pie time

I feel it neccesary to begin by recollecting my first doctors visit in London earlier today. It all began when I started to feel ill on Friday morning, and ran out of drugs at some point on Friday night. At work. Which let me tell you, isn't a fun experience when tonsillitis is rearing its ugly head. I got home at 2.30 on Saturday morning (I asked one of the other managers to close as a favour to me, so technically, this was finishing early). Everything nearby was closed and I was too fragile to venture out of the way to get drugs. This was a mistake. Saturday was possibly the most agonizing day of my young life - I cry-stumbled around the house aimlessly looking for comfort and tossed and turned myself into various contorted positions in bed and on the sofa until 4.30pm. I had texted my landlord earlier in the afternoon to get the details of the medical centre nearby that he recommended to me when I first moved into the neighbourhood. Once I knew where I was going (and that it wasn't too far), I decided to venture out, to a) get coke - as this is the only thing that gives me any sort of relief when I have tonsillitis and b) suss out the medical centre. As it turns out, its about 3 minutes away, which is super convenient. But it closes at 1pm on Saturdays. And doesn't open on Sundays. Epic fail. So I waited until today and woke up later than expected - half an hour before I was meant to start work in fact, and ventured to the medical centre. I needed to register, which was fine. Even the request for a urine sample didn't phase me. But then, they wouldn't schedule me for a consultation until I had my medical check. They could onlyfit me in at 5pm. By this stage I was getting a bit emotional, so the woman assured me that they would likely be able to see me straight after my check. Not true. At first they refused me until I got emo and lied by saying it was an emergency. So she said come back at 5.55. I got seen at 6.40 and my appointment lasted approximately 3 minutes. It went something like this:

Me: I have tonsillitis.

Doc: Let's have a look, open up *checks swollen and puss laden tonsils*

Me: ?

Doc: Yup

Amazingly, the whole process was free. I'm guessing its paid for by my national insurance, but I still will expect a substantial bill just because. I now have this lovely pile of drugs on my coffee table. Don't worry, I don't have a problem I'm just a hypochondriac.

Once I was sufficiently drugged up and completely devoid of emotion, I decided that I would have McDonalds for dinner. Because that's how I roll when I am sick. According to GoogleMaps, McDonalds is on my street and is about a ten minute walk. On the way there, I had an attack of the guilts and decided that because there was a supermarket between my house and McDonalds, I should go there and get something healthy instead. I am sick afterall, and a large part of it is surely my poor diet of late. Healthy was my intention, but what I really wanted was a meat pie. Preferably a Big Ben steak and cheese pie, but they don't have those in the UK. Ironic, no? Big Ben pies are a kiwi institution. You can find them at every dairy, service station, supermarket and school across the country. Steak and cheese is my personal choice, delicious velvety cheese, melt in your mouth steak and that gravy, mmm. For something that only costs $1 (maybe $1.50 now with inflation) and doesn't come from a fast food chain, it's pretty amazing comfort food. The best come from those glass warmer cabinet things in the corner dairies - they get a bit sweaty in the bag and the pastry goes slightly soggy, because they're heated straight from frozen. But that's the way I like 'em.

It's always amazed me that only Australia and New Zealand truly embrace pie-mania. We go fucking nuts for them - we used to even have a pie fast food chain, which could explain the obsession. The Brits have meat pies (thank fuck for that) but judging by the number of Chicken Cottages in London, they are more inclined to inhale some fried chicken or make a trip to the chipper to finish off a night of drunkery. So the pies aren't particularly refined - at least the ones I've seen so far. Cue the Fray Bentos (pictured right) - a pie in a can, which I discovered on tv tonight as one was being smeared all over Dawn French's massive boobies (ps: it looked like diarrhea) My flatmate tells me is absolutely heinous. Really England? A pie in a can? I guess its a step up from the Americans, who only really consider 'pie' to be fruit based. What's up with that yo?

I didn't think of this until just now, but my pie-craving was a definite result of watching far too much Pushing Daisies today. They work in a place called the Pie Hole, which is a building with a PIE CRUST ROOF for fricks sake. It's not even subliminal, but I have my excuses for not realising. Anyway, I found a steak pie in The Co-Operative (a supermarket, but really I think it's a gas station) that was £2.19. That's essentially the price of 5 Big Ben steak and cheese pies in New Zealand. At this point, my expectations were rather high and I secretly prayed that I had haphazardly stumble upon Big Ben's English cousin in the chiller section of a gas station in London. Alas, it was not nearly as good - but it was not bad either. I would go into detail of why it wasn't as good, but at the end of the day it was a £2.19 gas station pie from outside NZ. Really, what could I have hoped for? Also: I ate the pie with lots of veges which were gross but made me feel good about myself. I guess being sick makes me homesick and nostalgic and Big Ben pies are one of the few things you can't get from the New Zealand shop here.

After this experience, I am determined to make a delicious pie in the coming weeks. Last year I made an awesome steak, chilli and 3 cheese pie last year that seemed like a crowd pleaser, as well as a chicken pie that went down a treat as well. Me and da girls have decided to have dinner nights so my first contribution will be a pie, methinks. Flavour to be determined, but it will probably be steak and cheese. I've never made pastry, so I will give that aspect of pie-making a crack. Of course, if Ned the pie-maker from Pushing Daisies weren't a fictional character, he could roll my pastry any time.