, ,

You can quite neatly offset a lack of proximate desire, the lack of potential for further emotional engagement, with a bacon roll and a fudge donut.

In fact, it comes recommended: Gregg’s ought to do a second line in heart-attack encouragement as heart-break prevention. For the princely sum of £2.70, and the biting wind at the bus stop, you can stop up your arteries and your woes as if they were equivalent.

For lunch, I ate leftovers of fancy bubble and squeak (I, in my own way, strive to enter, in a blaze of glory, the London ‘make cheap food posh and expensive’ movement, with my own gourment bubble and squeak ‘wagon’, each dish flavoured with the dripping effluvia of London Bridge).

The bubble and squeak was supper, the sort of Nigel Slater rustling-up where you talk mournfully into the camera waiting for a guest who won’t ever come.

Mine came. I’m no Nigel Slater, bound forever by the sadness of my Labrador face. But we left separately in the morning, limbs restrained to the broadest circumferences of personal space.

Its the food that I will remember (when is it not?), because I make things with love in that angry Miss-Trunchbull-and-the-chocolate-cake way. I made this! Eat it! Love me! Don’t stop until you’re sick!

I was listening to the radio, seasoning the leeks with the wittering radio drama about independence. God, I hate political radio drama. Talk about something important by pretending you aren’t talking about it at all: the first rule of radio drama, and the rule most regularly ignored.

*The second rule is ‘don’t give people maths textbook names’. You know the ones: Our Lady of Guadaloupe, Josephine Breeze and Jamal go to meet Ignacio and Sierra Leone at the cinema. How tall is Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand?


Anyway. Someone was doing a terrible impression of David Cameron, whilst allegorically interpreting a painting of two stags in Holyrood House. A nightmarish half-baked artistic idea.


And so the night passed, as is its wont, sort of, unless there is an apocalypse. There wasn’t.