Homemade fishcakes take a fucking age to prepare, about an hour and half if you’re making fresh breadcrumbs like what I dun. The result of my labour was sensational; they were served with asparagus and a parsley sauce with enough garlic to fell Edith Piaf. After dinner IC and I settled down to Wolf Creek and polished off the rest of the Moet that my boss had given me for being a bloody good bloke. It was Friday and I was in excellent cheer.
I awoke on Saturday with my spine wrapped round a bedspring. I cursed myself for not being a little more pedantic with the exercises my osteopath had suggested I undertake on a daily basis. It’s one thing to do them when ones back feels like it’s made of broken beer bottles and another when it’s acting as it should (i.e., not throwing you on the ground when you gently cough.) I managed to get vertical after some effort and even performed a cooking task that resulted in two huge kippers for lunch. After lunch had settled, and following a trog, I threw myself on the deck and worked on my spine, after 30 mins it began to perform, basic movement was resumed albeit with a certain amount of spontaneous discomfort/fucking screaming agony.
It was glorious day, the summer we never really had suddenly happened, with cruel irony, on the last day of summer. At 4 o clock IC and I jumped on the black bitch, in my case I sort of climbed on it moaning softly, and we headed off for deepest darkest Surrey -the proper countryside stuff with all just fields and winding narrow lanes. The ride there was soporific despite the rapid pace, the roads that slice their way out of London are some of the most bike-friendly in South East England, the clement weather icing the bike-themed cake.
We arrived at James’ gaff at 5. His wife and kids, one 4 and one brand-new, played with us in the garden as we nattered and cracked into the first of the evenings beers. After the kids had knackered themselves out they were tucked away and James, IC and I nipped down the lane to the pub which is almost a cliché in its country pubness. We had a few and James bought us some sandwiches to soak up the booze, after a pleasant few hours we headed back up the lane and experienced the velvety pitch black of the countryside on the way home.
In order to not wake the family we spent the rest of the evening in James shed listening to music and drinking wine. By the time we went to bed we were all shattered but not without control of our respective faculties. The following morning the expected howl from the little one didn’t materialise and IC and I slept comfortably until 10. We had a fried breakfast, marvellous, and before we set off took some pics of the kids on the black bitch. After the goodbyes we headed back out into the sunshine and hit the road, before arriving home we popped by to see my old mum who forced cake and tea on us and we passed a happy hour talking about dead people in cars.
Back to the flat for a while and then IC and I went for a walk and did a tiny bit of shopping. The day was fading fast, the light is now gone by 7 for all intents and purposes and the air is taking on that familiar nip of the autumn. We decided to save the evening by going out for a curry at the eatery up the road from my gaff. I’m used to others leading the way when it comes to curry but as IC is less informed about South Indian cuisine than I, yours truly took the ordering bull by the horns. I hit the bloody nail on the head by ordering just the right amount of delicious stuff to share and we left feeling sated but not bloated, a difficult balance had been achieved, equilibrium was restored and the usual humdrum Sunday-evening pisser was wholly negated. Before heading off to bed we watched an old BBC adaptation of Dicken’s The Signal Man, which is 30 minutes of pure shit-flowing terror. Marvellous.
My back is still contorted like Auschwitz-Birkenau barbed wire but on a lighter note I’ve grown a Frank Zappa moustache.