No pinching, no punching
Despite having a slight cold, there was a song on my lips this morning for I did not have to join the rain-soaked stampede of pinching, punching commuters. Instead, as I am working from home this week, I gave myself permission to slack off after some admin, billing and so on.
To the local greengrocer, where the tiny, ancient proprietor shambles between the tired vegetables or on the days when he is working alone, disappears into the back for minutes at a time leaving his shop at the mercy of light fingers. Most leave cash on his till when he has wandered off. I bought leeks, potatoes and butternut squash. From these ingredients, with the addition of garlic, a fresh red chilli, cumin and coriander, mushrooms and chicken stock, I fashioned an unexpectedly delicious soup.
The afternoon given over to a cold-induced snooze and embarking on Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, lent me by my pal Nicola, who had previously turned me on to the splendid Owen Meany. Midnight's Children already rather wonderful. I had an irrational aversion to Rushdie, but this was dispelled by hearing him on the BBC for an hour last week.
Lorraine met a new friend Sharon in The Signalman tonight, and I joined them later as they were doing the pub quiz. One question was about Sir Jimmy Saville, an odious cigar chomper given to ostentatious charity work who this week is subject to a series of posthumous accusations of child molestation. His TV show was called Jim'll fix it. There were several teams, who'd given themselves unlikely names. One team, full of waggish students, had named itself Jim'll finger it in Saville's honour.
To the local greengrocer, where the tiny, ancient proprietor shambles between the tired vegetables or on the days when he is working alone, disappears into the back for minutes at a time leaving his shop at the mercy of light fingers. Most leave cash on his till when he has wandered off. I bought leeks, potatoes and butternut squash. From these ingredients, with the addition of garlic, a fresh red chilli, cumin and coriander, mushrooms and chicken stock, I fashioned an unexpectedly delicious soup.
The afternoon given over to a cold-induced snooze and embarking on Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, lent me by my pal Nicola, who had previously turned me on to the splendid Owen Meany. Midnight's Children already rather wonderful. I had an irrational aversion to Rushdie, but this was dispelled by hearing him on the BBC for an hour last week.
Lorraine met a new friend Sharon in The Signalman tonight, and I joined them later as they were doing the pub quiz. One question was about Sir Jimmy Saville, an odious cigar chomper given to ostentatious charity work who this week is subject to a series of posthumous accusations of child molestation. His TV show was called Jim'll fix it. There were several teams, who'd given themselves unlikely names. One team, full of waggish students, had named itself Jim'll finger it in Saville's honour.
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