Archive for the ‘Food and drink’ Category

Beach Boys / birds / boundaries / Barnaby

October 27, 2018

23 March
You’d think a Cambridge student writing a graffito on a library sign would be able to spell masturbation correctly; but as I always say, you don’t have to be able to spell it to enjoy it.

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1 April
I wish I were a blackbird. I aspire to the blamelessness of birds.

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5 April
My latest thing is deliberately hearing ‘bald’ as ‘balled’ for comic purposes, i.e. ‘I hear he’s completely bald.’ ‘Yes, he has the full complement of two.’ That sort of thing. Other people don’t seem to find it as hilarious as I do.

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19 May
Rude awakening this morning to the Beach Boys’ ‘When I Grow Up To Be A Man’, which seemed to be mocking me somehow, though I don’t know why.

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2 July
I remain amused by the fact that J and I concluded that people called Barnaby were respectively dickheads and absolutely fine on the basis of having met the same Barnaby several years apart.

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19 July
Memory: Aged about nine or ten, I wrote a story called ‘The Shit Family Robinson’, but I can’t remember anything about it. My best title, though.

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16 August
On the train down, a toddler walking up the aisle ran his hand over my knee to support himself. Even at an early age I think I had an innate feeling of respect for boundaries, and would never have touched anyone else without permission; but perhaps I did this and now have no memory of it.

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20 September
Hospital appointment on Monday. Granny: ‘It’ll be the Somerset water, I expect.’ I haven’t lived in Somerset since 2002.

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3 October
I boarded the train last night at Hitchin and immediately spotted a pair of suit trousers wrapped in clear plastic in the overhead luggage rack. Some poor man’s lost his trousers, I thought. This kind of thing I always find unbearably poignant, despite the smallness of the loss. Picturing the man’s realisation of his mistake. And that man dropping his programme in the Albert Hall urinal, sad because of the pathetic fate of the programme and because of its being so recently bought. Four pounds down the drain; two bunches of violets trod in the mud. The recentness may be key. Mr Bean at New Year, hearing ‘Three cheers for Rupert and Hubert’ from across the hall, and realising he’s just missed celebrating midnight by a matter of seconds due to the cruelty of his supposed friends. His pain at this is the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen on television. Small disappointments can be great.

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9 November
Quite a treat this lunchtime: Poached Chicken Supreme and Herb Velouté. The best jazz duo this side of New Orleans.

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I remember 4

September 18, 2016

I remember being scared of going on downward escalators when I was about nine or ten, and being ashamed of it as I knew I’d been able to go on them when I was younger.

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I remember light pink fluoride pills.

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I remember hearing Chopin’s Funeral March on the radio when I was ill and thinking how beautiful it sounded but wondering if it might just be delirium.

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I remember making a boiled egg for my father, perhaps because it was his birthday, and dropping it into the pan, under the impression that it would float, never having done it before, and the egg cracking on the bottom of the pan and the albumen emerging from beneath, and him being angry.

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I remember a Year 5 Music lesson where I became aware I couldn’t see the board because I didn’t have my glasses and hoping desperately that I wouldn’t be asked by Dr T to read anything out because it would have meant admitting I couldn’t see.

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I remember wrinkled fingertips.

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I remember my little tin of blue Humbrol enamel paint that I bought to paint a model perhaps but ended up just opening every so often, prising the lid off with the end of a teaspoon to see the magical blue inside.

humbrol

I remember visiting Hinkley Point and being given blue plastic earplugs which I kept for ages afterwards.

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I remember eating and enjoying tongue, without acknowledging to myself what it was.

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I remember assuming ‘several’ meant at least seven or so, and coming only slowly and stubbornly to the realisation that it might mean, say, three or four.

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I remember praying for God to kill me.

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I remember the big yellow metal train in Welshmill Park with the graffito on saying PENIS LOVERS MEET HERE FRIDAY 8PM, and wondering what went on at such meetings.

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I remember an awful assembly at St John’s in which I was part of a presentation on hair, explaining that people had straight hair because of flat follicles and curly hair because of round follicles, and not understanding why flat and why round, which I still don’t. And then saying of Charlotte M the line ‘Her perm won’t last long,’ not really knowing what a perm was or why anyone would want one, and dimly sensing, perhaps, the absurdity of parroting words I didn’t comprehend written by some teacher who had no idea what children were.

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I remember Mr P saying it was always worth having a go during oral exams even if you didn’t know the word, as a pupil of his had once had his Brummie-inflected ‘a bee’ taken as ‘abeille’ and accepted.

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I remember feigning that I’d expected Gianluca Vialli to be sacked as Chelsea manager, though I hadn’t and it upset me.

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I remember Maths Circus.

Shakespeare, pastries and holy water

April 23, 2016

There’s John Falstaff, a comical fellow
And that envious Moor called Othello
But the star of the folio
Is surely Malvolio
In cross-gartered stockings of yellow

The above is my humble contribution to mark the quatercentenary of Shakespeare’s shuffling off of his brief candle.

Relatedly, this is what I recall of the dream I had last Sunday night:

I met J at an unspecified event. She was sitting in some communal room, like the Green Room at Gonville and Caius but a bit swisher. She had a bowl of water and was aspersing people. I said ‘Asperges me hyssopo’ and she chucked a bit of water at me.

Then we had a good-natured chat about Shakespeare in which I surprised myself at my knowledge of the plays. I certainly mentioned Florizel and Perdita, and we discussed Twelfth Night, which I said was my favourite. I suppose knowledge grows by accretion without one realising it.

I took a pastry at her prompting, which appeared to be a loosely coiled croissant, then walked with her as I ate. It uncoiled into a kind of baguette, much more substantial than it had seemed, the end dragging on the ground, the other still in my mouth. I was glad to see her looking so well.

Shakespeare

I remember 2

August 8, 2015

I remember going to a children’s concert at Jackdaws in Great Elm and the programme giving the name of one piece as ‘Vaginia Reel’.

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I remember the happiness of going to National Trust properties and, against the odds, not being bored, perhaps because of the shop or the tea room.

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I remember playing the word COON in a Scrabble game because I’d got it mixed up with ‘coot’, and sensing from the grown-ups’ reactions that I’d done something wrong, though no one said anything.

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I remember feeling inhibited about waving my arms when we sang hateful evangelical songs in school like ‘We are climbing Jesus’ ladder’.

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I remember feeling embarrassed by my unbroken singing voice.

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I remember the sickly smell of breakfast in Barry: pineapple juice and Weetabix.

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I remember D saying confidentially to me that there was someone in the changing room with awful BO and my suspecting that it was me. Perhaps he was trying to be diplomatic. He wasn’t an academic boy, but he was kind, like Piggy in Lord of the Flies.

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I remember seeing a comma butterfly in Welshmill Park on an inset day.

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I remember stroking my tortoiseshell butterfly until its wings fell off and all that remained was the abdomen.

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I remember the summer when I went down the road to the petrol station to buy a 500ml bottle of Sprite and the lid was a special one that meant I won a free bottle of Sprite and it happened several times in a row so the people on the checkout began to get suspicious.

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I remember Tiger Tokens.

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I remember reading The Great Gatsby and picturing the gas station as the one at the bottom of Weymouth Road.

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I remember a boy shouting ‘Queer’ at me from a window, and realising he’d only shouted it because I happened to be there, but also half thinking, How does he know?

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I remember Miss Davies showing us Blackadder the Third in class to explain about rotten boroughs.

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I remember getting shyer as I got older.

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I remember feeling absolutely indifferent to cars.

Tortoiseshell, July 2015