The bank holiday weekend revolved around foodtigo and began in a local curry house with IC, sis and bro-law. I’ve finally sussed this place and we selected a combination of dishes that doffed caps and tipped winks to one another whilst churning guts and burning gobs. Fucking lovely it was, I awaited the following days ablutions with a sort of perverse trepidation but it was pain-free and okay. Bah.
IC has discovered Skype. It’s not so much the free-phone part it’s the whole webcam aspect of it. If you’re away from your immediate family Skype is completely wonderful… if you’re trying to read the paper -or, more pertinently, trying to check your emails- Skype is the technological equivalent of a relative occupying the stall. But like everything there is an upside. As a consequence of Skypeing I’ve discovered the Guardian ‘quick’ crossword.
I’m not good at crosswords and The Guardian ‘quick’ crossword isn’t, according to some, a very good crossword. For one thing, it’s not fucking quick and I’ve yet to finish one of the bastards but there is something quite beautiful about an answer materialising in your frazzled brains. It also seems to have a sort of pseudo addictive quality. I can see it being of use in the future when I have to exchange the cigs and nightcaps for something a little healthier. What I’m saying is that Skype has actually saved my life.
Saturday evening, IC and I took the train to uber Sarf Landan to meet up with James and his missus for some dinner. James has always been a bloody good cook. As kids he and I used to experiment with food when our parents were out doing business for The Lord. In fact, it was James and I that invented the fully deep-fried breakfast –almost. We were in the process of its happening when we discovered that attempting to deep fry eggs results in an inferno. Our experiments were sadly curtailed by our being separated unless under supervision by an adult. Bastards.
We had a starter of stuffed mushrooms, lovely little fellows they were, and for main a Tuscan bean salad and tuna meatballs in a ragu which actually tasted like it could’ve come from last weeks trip to Italy. There was so much Cava knocking about I can barely recall the steamed pudding which preceded the Amaretto… IC and I waddled happily back home in a stuffed, pissed, fug.
Needless to say Sunday took a while to get off the ground. We went for breakfast at lunchtime to a French place in Clapham that was bustling outside with diners. The weather was fucking hot, too hot for outside (as far as I was concerned) and I was secretly pleased there was no space on the pavement. Sitting inside enjoying not-as-good-as-I’ve-had, but still tasty Eggs Benedict, the hangover began to disappear without the sun beating down on my head.
We took the tube back to East London stopping by Tesco on the way to get some provisions (booze) for the planned Barbeque. It was now as hot as it had been in Venice, I wasn’t sure if I was entirely comfortable in the heat and considered buying a hat, which suggested that I might be getting sunstroke.
The chap hosting the Barbeque, Oscar, lives round the corner from IC and Mary and has access to a vast roof garden offering a beautiful panoramic view of London. By default it also offers a swirling 360-degree view of the roads and gardens hundreds of feet below.
I suffer from idiot’s vertigo, that is, a completely paralysing fear of heights and an irrational desire to leap into the void. Before IC and I had breakfast we watched Man on a Wire, which I sort of enjoyed with my arsehole nibbling at my underwear. In addition to the paralysing/jump paradox my minds-eye had decided that it would imagine tightropes spanning from the roof garden to adjacent building in the distance and asking me what the fuck I’d do about it. Being more of a projected situation my brain went into spasm as it considered actually walking off the building and over the treetops and towers to reach my destination. It was sporadically awful.
The roof began to fill with guests, maybe twenty or so, some I knew, some not. Oscar and Mary had home-made the sausages from scratch and they were delicious, other guests had brought along various treats and it was lots of fun up there overseeing a warm and sunny London eating and drinking, until I remembered that I was high up with an inviting descent all round and what would it be like to tightrope-walk towards the East India Docks… I can’t even tightrope-walk… and so on. Every so often I’d look below to check I wasn’t going to jump, twice I scared the muck out my back thinking ‘just go…’ Be nice to see the world from a different POV without all this grief, on the rare occasion that did happen it was sublime.
Back on terra firmer, IC and I met up with Jen and Andy in a little park by IC’s gaff to see off the evening. It stayed warm until dusk which seemed to be endless… after we returned home, buoyed on by a bank holiday Monday, we stayed up for a while longer until sleep forced us to retire.
Monday lunchtime, IC, Mary and I spurned pots and pans and went off to eat at the pub round the corner. We had ‘english tapas’ fresh fish fingers and fishcakes, a terrine, a little pot of roast beef shin, fat n’ chubby chips and took ourselves off to Broadway market for coffee. We bumped into a rather dazed Oscar who invited us to the roof for another barbeque later that afternoon; despite myself I was happy at the prospect of considering death for a few more hours hanging over East London with my bum twitching like a shell-shocked sapper. I bought some sea Bream and Bass from a humourless fishmonger and we went home to get ready, it was then we heard about Lucky. The barbeque was a little subdued, it rained for a bit and IC and I weren’t really feeling that sociable. We managed to extract some amusement from proceedings then went home to watch movies and just be a bit quiet. Such is life so it is.
So, the Wednesday list, what horrors in spelling await!
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