It is Hogmanay, New Year’s Eve, the cusp between yesterday and tomorrow. Bloggiana and I are huddled in what passes for our drawing room, Our Dog licking his parts contentedly in the corner, the fire sputtering reluctantly in a wind-chilled grate. Upstairs, Teener, Bloggiana’s daughter plays with her Kiddy Set of Safety-Enhanced Razorblades; while Adolesco, Bloggiana’s temporarily resident godson, negotiates the by-ways of a hand-held device game, War of the Baby-Shredders. It is cold, cold. Outside, any sparrow brave enough to sneeze looks on in horror as its spit freezes into an instant minute hail shower. Ice grows apace. Pipes expand menacingly. Global warming seems to have taken on a sinister new disguise.
Keeping ourselves warm by lighting as many consecutive cigarettes as we can hold, Bloggiana and I reflect on the fact that we have enjoyed a very lazy festive period indeed. What with trotting down to London before Christmas for a week of Parties, then returning home for a further week of the same, we found ourselves not only worn out and bursting out of our jeans but to all intents and purposes, completely sapped. To the extent that by the time Santa Crunch was required to visit, it was all we could manage to dig out the shooting socks and count out two tangerines.
Even now, with the goose and its trimmings firmly lodged in the memory of Christmases past, I have to gird myself to press the On button on the Remote Control. Or indeed to take a bath. Gamely, Bloggiana, prostrate in front of the telly, catches up on last year’s retrospective of Ten Decades of Bruce Forsyth in Variety Television. Behind her, I fiddle with the pieces of a 100-piece jigsaw (theme: Robin in Snow) allowing the process to numb me into a kind of torpor, the like of which I know from experience is very difficult to shake off. On either side of us, half-empty beakers of PG give testimony to our creeping festive indolence. A box of chocolate covered MDF balls lies half-eaten by our feet.
Then suddenly, the old year turns round to bite us when the Brucie show comes to an end and we realise A. that it’s eleven o’clock and B. that the groaning coming from upstairs is in fact not the sound of hand-held device pleasure but the sound of pain. Adolesco and Teener are so hungry, they are actually in tears. Bloggiana and I exchange guilty glances. It is time, we chime simultaneously, to stir ourselves. It is time, we chime, inhaling deeply like a couple of steeplechasers snorting at the start of the Boxing Day race at Kempton, to stand up.
&&&
Fifty minutes later.
I have managed to wash enough pans so that we can cook some pasta with butter. Adolesco has come to terms with the fact that eating and baby-shredding cannot take place simultaneously. Teener has been persuaded to abandon her telephone call to Childline. Bloggiana is sitting down again, this time on a chair next to a table – much more handy for drinking.
As the pasta steams promisingly on the Expensive Cooker, the four of us sit in silence. It is the kind of silence which could mean we are all reflecting on the year that is about to come to an end. Assuming it is, I myself indulge in a spot of mulling. The death of a rabbit. The death of a dog. The arrival of two new hamsters apparently grown from a hamster starter kit. Freedom (Bloggiana’s) from That Miserable Shit, as she likes to designate her outgoing spouse. Freedom (mine) from any embarassment ever again about nits. The discovery of Internet Dating. The discovery of Facebook. Chutney.
And there are other factors to ponder as well. Adolesco is surely thinking about his rite of passage when he thumped Measly Twat-Sniveller. Teener must be reflecting on the joys that our friend Doris unleashed when he showed Bloggiana how to go barking.
Of course the year has brought us the credit crunch and more rain than we knew what to do with and unspeakable pain for stockbrokers up and down the land. It has brought us the news that we must move from the house that we love, leave behind the horses we are wedded to and the large bits of furniture we won’t be able to fit into a boarding house in Morecambe. It has brought us to a point of change, something Bloggiana and I would rather avoid.
It has also brought us to this silence and as I come to the end of indulging in mine, I ask Bloggiana exactly how she has been using hers.
Fuck me, Bloggiana trumpets, her voice scything through the air like a scythe, I was just reflecting on how bloody cold it is hereabouts. Any sign of that pasta?
And as I finally feed us all at ten minutes to midnight, Bloggiana pipes up once more. Pass us the PG, would you, old girl?
At which I reach out for a new bottle, unthuck the cork, pour.
And, observed wryly by Teener and Adolesco – both far more mature than their adult companions - we raise our glasses to another year. Jesus Christ, says Bloggiana wiping her lips and letting forth a small shudder, that was a blinder.
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Monday, 15 December 2008
TAKING STOCK Part I
It’s been a sensationally tough week hereabouts and Bloggiana and I are all but ready to hang up our boots and say sod it.
First Rubirosa came with her terrible news that Trickyladdio her erstwhile feller is doing precisely that, remaining erstwhile.
Next we were all given a sleepless night when Bloggiana’s daughter Teener actually fainted on account of the smell emanating from Our Dog’s undercarriage, this meaning two things: first, we had to spend a long time sitting in Casualty while Teener’s head was examined, (revealing among other things an as yet unresolved issue with nits); and second, we were forced to take the scissors to Our Dog, a perfectly loathsome undertaking which involves gnashing teeth, smell, rotting wood and dags.
Next a teaspoon got caught in the kitchen grinder – the same grinder that has been working perfectly for eighteen years – and in spite of our best efforts, would not budge, this meaning two things: first, the grinder no longer works because second, the grinder is now so old, there is no one still alive who knows how to fix it.
And finally I, Piccalilli, got a parking ticket. And Lord knows there is nothing more guaranteed to put everyone hereabouts in a bad mood than the giving away of perfectly hard won cash to the state.
So last night Bloggiana and I found ourselves sitting by a sputtering fire with wine in our cups, cigarettes between our lips and an unvoiced pain in our wintry hearts. I mean dammit, dammit to hell, erupted Bloggiana at one point. And all I could do at that point was look up and nod my head in agreement.
In actual fact it has to be said that these taking stock moments in Our House are few and far between. Yes, Bloggiana has had a hell of a time getting rid of her outgoing spouse. Yes, we have no money and Our House is going to have to be sold. Yes, the dog stinks, the horses are more than we can afford, there’s dust everywhere and the mice keep stealing our crumpets. But for all of that, Bloggiana and I and Teener and our varying cast of friends remain robustly cheerful.
So it was not too long last night before the air began to lift. Bloggiana reminded me that Doris is coming to stay soon - Doris, our man in Istanbul, who taught Bloggiana how to go barking. Then I remembered that I still had a cheque in my wallet from the local council which represents an entirely unexpected £2.50 rate rebate. Then a co-equestrienne knocked on the door to tell us she had managed to capture a photograph of the white crow on her mobile – and we all know that a white crow indicates new beginnings. Then co-equestrienne went on to tell us she had also spotted one of Our Cats biffing a young fox on the nose and seeing him off. And if all that wasn’t thrilling enough, I opened our latest batch of chutney for a quick taster – and blow me down if it wasn’t absolutely yummy.
Fuck me, said Bloggiana, as a large spoonful of the brown stuff disappeared down her gullet, damned if I don’t think that isn’t one of your best, she went on.
So then we were obliged to open a new bottle of PG to celebrate. And suddenly everything did not seem too bad, after all.
First Rubirosa came with her terrible news that Trickyladdio her erstwhile feller is doing precisely that, remaining erstwhile.
Next we were all given a sleepless night when Bloggiana’s daughter Teener actually fainted on account of the smell emanating from Our Dog’s undercarriage, this meaning two things: first, we had to spend a long time sitting in Casualty while Teener’s head was examined, (revealing among other things an as yet unresolved issue with nits); and second, we were forced to take the scissors to Our Dog, a perfectly loathsome undertaking which involves gnashing teeth, smell, rotting wood and dags.
Next a teaspoon got caught in the kitchen grinder – the same grinder that has been working perfectly for eighteen years – and in spite of our best efforts, would not budge, this meaning two things: first, the grinder no longer works because second, the grinder is now so old, there is no one still alive who knows how to fix it.
And finally I, Piccalilli, got a parking ticket. And Lord knows there is nothing more guaranteed to put everyone hereabouts in a bad mood than the giving away of perfectly hard won cash to the state.
So last night Bloggiana and I found ourselves sitting by a sputtering fire with wine in our cups, cigarettes between our lips and an unvoiced pain in our wintry hearts. I mean dammit, dammit to hell, erupted Bloggiana at one point. And all I could do at that point was look up and nod my head in agreement.
In actual fact it has to be said that these taking stock moments in Our House are few and far between. Yes, Bloggiana has had a hell of a time getting rid of her outgoing spouse. Yes, we have no money and Our House is going to have to be sold. Yes, the dog stinks, the horses are more than we can afford, there’s dust everywhere and the mice keep stealing our crumpets. But for all of that, Bloggiana and I and Teener and our varying cast of friends remain robustly cheerful.
So it was not too long last night before the air began to lift. Bloggiana reminded me that Doris is coming to stay soon - Doris, our man in Istanbul, who taught Bloggiana how to go barking. Then I remembered that I still had a cheque in my wallet from the local council which represents an entirely unexpected £2.50 rate rebate. Then a co-equestrienne knocked on the door to tell us she had managed to capture a photograph of the white crow on her mobile – and we all know that a white crow indicates new beginnings. Then co-equestrienne went on to tell us she had also spotted one of Our Cats biffing a young fox on the nose and seeing him off. And if all that wasn’t thrilling enough, I opened our latest batch of chutney for a quick taster – and blow me down if it wasn’t absolutely yummy.
Fuck me, said Bloggiana, as a large spoonful of the brown stuff disappeared down her gullet, damned if I don’t think that isn’t one of your best, she went on.
So then we were obliged to open a new bottle of PG to celebrate. And suddenly everything did not seem too bad, after all.
Thursday, 4 December 2008
TEARS Part I
Bloggiana’s cousin Rubirosa came to stay for a few days last week on the rebound. Her boyfriend Romeo had just come and announced that what they had was not what he wanted and that he was going to go away for a while and leave her to her own devices while he worked out exactly what he did want.
Now I should tell you that Rubirosa is a fine girl with a fine head on her shoulders. Over the years, she has been responsible for many of the grander moments in Bloggiana’s life – the wisecracks flow and a sense of being engaged in life is reinforced and those who spend time at her table leave it feeling replete and enriched. Rubirosa’s spirit is one of life’s larger organs. And her heart was Romeo's for life.
Bloggiana and I had not realised in advance how distraught Rubirosa was and we had organised a season of dinners and a houseful of guests. Children poured out of crevices of Our House throughout Rubirosa’s stay and the Pinot G coursed into and out of our veins like lifeblood itself. There was much ribaldry, many bad jokes, late night giggling, early morning moans. Cigarette smoke swirled in atmospheric spirals around us all and we sat with half-closed eyes and laughed until our ribs ached.
Each time we turned to look at Rubirosa, she seemed serene, flowing gracefully over her own stormy seas. For the benefit of the children, she did a cracking routine with a burning butt and a racoon hand puppet. For the benefit of the grown-ups, she adopted a range of accents from Indian takeaway owner who’d been brought up on the outskirts of Glasgow to shepherd from somewhere near Shap to all-singing, all-dancing fully paid up member of the Sloane Rangers’ Handbook Nostalgia club. Guests, children, Bloggiana and I all beamed in her light, and thanked our lucky stars we were able to share it.
But underneath, Rubirosa was not feeling serene at all and when we went to bed on the last night, it transpired that the smiles were rictus grins and the laughter was the other side of sadness and the accents were varying takes on first glimpses of insanity. Rubirosa, we said, trying to hold onto her before her stormy seas washed her out of our sight, don’t be so sad, we said helplessly.
And once they came, Rubirosa’s tears could not stop. They were tears like pearls and tears like stones and tears like thistle heads. Huge tears of pain and grief and gnawing self-recrimination. By the time the tears were in full flow, Bloggiana and I were somewhat muzzy-headed yet that did not ease any of the pain that we felt at seeing the awful terrible degree to which Rubirosa had been wounded. In a trinity, we sat and held hands while the tears flowed. Now and again, Bloggiana withdrew her hand so she could reacquaint her glass with her lips – but it was not for long and we locked ourselves together, hoping that some of our love for our sainted grieving cousin would rub off and bring the dear girl back from the abyss.
Later, as we left Rubirosa to sleep, and headed off to our respective billets, Bloggiana said in a loud voice Fuck it. I mean damn and blast it to buggery, what on earth has got into the man? And, no doubt thinking for a moment of her own recent escape from life-partnership, pointed her lips towards the M6 southbound and blew one parting smoke picture in the air – which I could have sworn depicted a pair of fingers pointing sharply upwards in an unforgiving, uncompromising, distinctly Churchillian V-shape.
Now I should tell you that Rubirosa is a fine girl with a fine head on her shoulders. Over the years, she has been responsible for many of the grander moments in Bloggiana’s life – the wisecracks flow and a sense of being engaged in life is reinforced and those who spend time at her table leave it feeling replete and enriched. Rubirosa’s spirit is one of life’s larger organs. And her heart was Romeo's for life.
Bloggiana and I had not realised in advance how distraught Rubirosa was and we had organised a season of dinners and a houseful of guests. Children poured out of crevices of Our House throughout Rubirosa’s stay and the Pinot G coursed into and out of our veins like lifeblood itself. There was much ribaldry, many bad jokes, late night giggling, early morning moans. Cigarette smoke swirled in atmospheric spirals around us all and we sat with half-closed eyes and laughed until our ribs ached.
Each time we turned to look at Rubirosa, she seemed serene, flowing gracefully over her own stormy seas. For the benefit of the children, she did a cracking routine with a burning butt and a racoon hand puppet. For the benefit of the grown-ups, she adopted a range of accents from Indian takeaway owner who’d been brought up on the outskirts of Glasgow to shepherd from somewhere near Shap to all-singing, all-dancing fully paid up member of the Sloane Rangers’ Handbook Nostalgia club. Guests, children, Bloggiana and I all beamed in her light, and thanked our lucky stars we were able to share it.
But underneath, Rubirosa was not feeling serene at all and when we went to bed on the last night, it transpired that the smiles were rictus grins and the laughter was the other side of sadness and the accents were varying takes on first glimpses of insanity. Rubirosa, we said, trying to hold onto her before her stormy seas washed her out of our sight, don’t be so sad, we said helplessly.
And once they came, Rubirosa’s tears could not stop. They were tears like pearls and tears like stones and tears like thistle heads. Huge tears of pain and grief and gnawing self-recrimination. By the time the tears were in full flow, Bloggiana and I were somewhat muzzy-headed yet that did not ease any of the pain that we felt at seeing the awful terrible degree to which Rubirosa had been wounded. In a trinity, we sat and held hands while the tears flowed. Now and again, Bloggiana withdrew her hand so she could reacquaint her glass with her lips – but it was not for long and we locked ourselves together, hoping that some of our love for our sainted grieving cousin would rub off and bring the dear girl back from the abyss.
Later, as we left Rubirosa to sleep, and headed off to our respective billets, Bloggiana said in a loud voice Fuck it. I mean damn and blast it to buggery, what on earth has got into the man? And, no doubt thinking for a moment of her own recent escape from life-partnership, pointed her lips towards the M6 southbound and blew one parting smoke picture in the air – which I could have sworn depicted a pair of fingers pointing sharply upwards in an unforgiving, uncompromising, distinctly Churchillian V-shape.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
CHUTNEY LABELS Part II
One World, One Chutney ©2008 presents the first in a line of Action Initiative Chutneys. Eco-friendly, low on carbon emissions, tax-efficient and politically correct, our new Golden Beetroot Chutney is set to take the relish world by storm. Indeed, it was only a month after its launch that this groundbreaking relish was featured in full technicolour on the front page of Climate Change magazine, as a beacon of environmental innovation in a world where carbon dioxides and greenhouse gases are in danger of obscuring the efforts of the minority individual.
Many and various are those who have taken this new and exciting flavour of chutney to their hearts. Professor Sir Achingly Bright of Corpus Chutney College has vowed to take a pot of Golden Beetroot with him into every Senate meeting he is invited to attend during his tenure as Regius Professor of Topical Studies.
Likewise Mr Jolyon Target, head of the British Institute for the re-integration of the Bearded Tit into the county of North-north-east Buntingshire, has adopted the Golden Beetroot Chutney cause. Forget the RSPB, his t-shirt boldly (and possibly suicidally) trumpets, I am a fully paid up member of the GBC fan club.
Meanwhile, the battle to discover the recipe for this state-of-the-art relish is growing apace. Laboratory technicians, DNA experts, world-class sommeliers and sniffer dogs have been brought in by rival chutney conglomerates to try and decipher the Golden Beetroot’s ingredients.
Rest assured however that the secrets of the contents of this jar remain safe with us. www.oneworldonechutney.blogspot.com or e-mail us on oneworld.onechutney@virgin.net.
Many and various are those who have taken this new and exciting flavour of chutney to their hearts. Professor Sir Achingly Bright of Corpus Chutney College has vowed to take a pot of Golden Beetroot with him into every Senate meeting he is invited to attend during his tenure as Regius Professor of Topical Studies.
Likewise Mr Jolyon Target, head of the British Institute for the re-integration of the Bearded Tit into the county of North-north-east Buntingshire, has adopted the Golden Beetroot Chutney cause. Forget the RSPB, his t-shirt boldly (and possibly suicidally) trumpets, I am a fully paid up member of the GBC fan club.
Meanwhile, the battle to discover the recipe for this state-of-the-art relish is growing apace. Laboratory technicians, DNA experts, world-class sommeliers and sniffer dogs have been brought in by rival chutney conglomerates to try and decipher the Golden Beetroot’s ingredients.
Rest assured however that the secrets of the contents of this jar remain safe with us. www.oneworldonechutney.blogspot.com or e-mail us on oneworld.onechutney@virgin.net.
CHUTNEY LABELS Part I
One World, One Chutney ©2008 presents the ultimate in Christmas relishes: Apple, Date and Cranberry Chutney. It is said that when John the Baptist first tasted this truly sensational foodstuff, he almost lost his head. Ditto Catherine Parr. Spice barons, middle eastern warriors, cheese experts and takeaway addicts the world over have been known to stumble over each other in queues to sample our Christmas Chutney. They take the aroma of it to their beds at night and have to sip water mixed with lemon juice in order to dampen the memory of it which otherwise torments their newly inflamed palates for days afterwards.
It is said that when the late, great chutney expert, Sir Saffron ‘de Branston’ Gumbril sampled our 2006 batch, while lying on his deathbed, a smile rose to his lips and he was heard to utter to his manservant Cymbeline "This is the apogee of my tasting life. Cymbeline, you have been loyal to me throughout. Get me the Christmas Chutney recipe. And I will change my will to ensure you receive all my old kilner jars." Cymbeline, astonished at such a gesture from his notoriously cautious and some would say parsimonious employer, did his best to oblige. But alas A. Sir Saffron died immediately; and B. One World, One Chutney - ie. we - refused to hand over our secrets. We did however send a bunch of flowers to Sir Saffron’s funeral and made a small donation to his favourite charity Children Without Chutney. For more fascinating chutney facts, please see our blog: www.oneworldonechutney.blogspot.com or e-mail us on oneworld.onechutney@virgin.net.
It is said that when the late, great chutney expert, Sir Saffron ‘de Branston’ Gumbril sampled our 2006 batch, while lying on his deathbed, a smile rose to his lips and he was heard to utter to his manservant Cymbeline "This is the apogee of my tasting life. Cymbeline, you have been loyal to me throughout. Get me the Christmas Chutney recipe. And I will change my will to ensure you receive all my old kilner jars." Cymbeline, astonished at such a gesture from his notoriously cautious and some would say parsimonious employer, did his best to oblige. But alas A. Sir Saffron died immediately; and B. One World, One Chutney - ie. we - refused to hand over our secrets. We did however send a bunch of flowers to Sir Saffron’s funeral and made a small donation to his favourite charity Children Without Chutney. For more fascinating chutney facts, please see our blog: www.oneworldonechutney.blogspot.com or e-mail us on oneworld.onechutney@virgin.net.
Monday, 1 December 2008
PARTIES Part III
In her new post-divorce state, Bloggiana has been galloping down the west-coast mainline with almost indecent frequency. Bloggiana, I ask her, what are you up to in London this week? Bloggiana glances up sheepishly from her Cranberry, her index finger looking alarmingly tremulous, almost as though it were suffering from Repetitive Strain Injury. Not sure, the old girl replies in a very small voice indeed. I wink conspiratorially at Our Dog. It is hard to imagine that Bloggiana is braving the Pendolino for any reason other than to attend more Parties.
In Bloggiana’s absence, Our Dog and I spend a quiet week sitting together in the parlour. On the sofa, Our Dog picks at sticks lodged in his interior. At the table, I cut up apples and make batch upon batch of Apple and Apricot Chutney. Twigs tumble, cores roll, peelings glide, pips fly. The big pan steps up to its pickling plate, the Expensive Cooker joining in with relish and soon the air is thick, and the curtains dewy, with promise. Cooking over, it is time for bottling and now jamjars roll out de-brand-labelled, spruced up, perkily awaiting their new responsibilities. Our Dog farts comfortably into the upholstery, munching on one or two small pieces of Leylandii which he seems to have overlooked yesterday. And I warm the jars, cut out small circles of greaseproof paper, start spooning the chutney into its new place of rest.
Days fly by in this mode. Our Dog, ponging affably and self-grooming in a detached kind of way, is content to watch me. While I am content to be watched, never happier than when contemplating a sea of brown sticky goo and dreaming of eating it by the ladleful, with cheese.
But all chutney dreams must come to an end, especially as it turns out when Bloggiana comes home early. Bloggiana, I ask with bated breath, how were those parties? Bloggiana looks at me, her hooded smile Sphinx-like in its inscrutability and I confess I have no idea what she is about to say next.
But suddenly I find that Bloggiana’s extraordinary narrative skills are transporting me to a Bayswater salon, to a singles drinks party. In the background are crowds of Single Men and Single Women. In the foreground, gripping his and hers matching cocktails, are Bloggiana and a tall man in a blazer. Bloggiana is looking her very best. Her high heels bestow her with an elegance (and a flat stomach) that we are not used to seeing when she is wandering about the livery yard in britches. Her skin looks clean and her hair is free of straw. The Tall Man in Blazer sounds Irish, his rich booming voice enveloping Bloggiana, shrouding her from the unseemly mass beyond.
So what happened next? I say to the old girl, riveted. Well, says my old friend, the thing is, she says, Yes, Blazer Man was undoubtedly good looking; and I felt pretty certain he was prosperous; and no doubt to all intents and purposes the man was well-connected. But I have to say that in other departments, the man fell damnably short of the mark. I mean for a start, continues Bloggiana, he appeared to have no idea about what it is like to stand in an overcrowded Bayswater salon in high heels. (I timidly point out that perhaps that is no bad thing, but Bloggiana is not for listening). For another, he seemed absolutely furious at being introduced to me because the introduction cut across the narration of his life story which was clearly dearer to him than anything else. For a third, his voice was so loud, I still have tinitus. And worst of all, says Bloggiana, and at this point her voice dips to an unheard-of low, he failed at any point throughout our encounter to notice how empty my glass was.
We are sitting in the parlour, the three of us. Our Dog has extracted a mouthful of sticky willies from his nether parts which he is spitting like ball-bearings one by one onto the carpet. I am at my desk, trying to conjure up new slogans to fit in with our 'Chutney Rhyming Slang' campaign. Bloggiana is at the table, lighting up a cig, then taking the cig to a map of the London underground – and planting a firm black circle on an area roughly on the spot where I imagine Bayswater should be. It seems the west coast line may be free from Bloggiana's advances for some time to come.
In Bloggiana’s absence, Our Dog and I spend a quiet week sitting together in the parlour. On the sofa, Our Dog picks at sticks lodged in his interior. At the table, I cut up apples and make batch upon batch of Apple and Apricot Chutney. Twigs tumble, cores roll, peelings glide, pips fly. The big pan steps up to its pickling plate, the Expensive Cooker joining in with relish and soon the air is thick, and the curtains dewy, with promise. Cooking over, it is time for bottling and now jamjars roll out de-brand-labelled, spruced up, perkily awaiting their new responsibilities. Our Dog farts comfortably into the upholstery, munching on one or two small pieces of Leylandii which he seems to have overlooked yesterday. And I warm the jars, cut out small circles of greaseproof paper, start spooning the chutney into its new place of rest.
Days fly by in this mode. Our Dog, ponging affably and self-grooming in a detached kind of way, is content to watch me. While I am content to be watched, never happier than when contemplating a sea of brown sticky goo and dreaming of eating it by the ladleful, with cheese.
But all chutney dreams must come to an end, especially as it turns out when Bloggiana comes home early. Bloggiana, I ask with bated breath, how were those parties? Bloggiana looks at me, her hooded smile Sphinx-like in its inscrutability and I confess I have no idea what she is about to say next.
But suddenly I find that Bloggiana’s extraordinary narrative skills are transporting me to a Bayswater salon, to a singles drinks party. In the background are crowds of Single Men and Single Women. In the foreground, gripping his and hers matching cocktails, are Bloggiana and a tall man in a blazer. Bloggiana is looking her very best. Her high heels bestow her with an elegance (and a flat stomach) that we are not used to seeing when she is wandering about the livery yard in britches. Her skin looks clean and her hair is free of straw. The Tall Man in Blazer sounds Irish, his rich booming voice enveloping Bloggiana, shrouding her from the unseemly mass beyond.
So what happened next? I say to the old girl, riveted. Well, says my old friend, the thing is, she says, Yes, Blazer Man was undoubtedly good looking; and I felt pretty certain he was prosperous; and no doubt to all intents and purposes the man was well-connected. But I have to say that in other departments, the man fell damnably short of the mark. I mean for a start, continues Bloggiana, he appeared to have no idea about what it is like to stand in an overcrowded Bayswater salon in high heels. (I timidly point out that perhaps that is no bad thing, but Bloggiana is not for listening). For another, he seemed absolutely furious at being introduced to me because the introduction cut across the narration of his life story which was clearly dearer to him than anything else. For a third, his voice was so loud, I still have tinitus. And worst of all, says Bloggiana, and at this point her voice dips to an unheard-of low, he failed at any point throughout our encounter to notice how empty my glass was.
We are sitting in the parlour, the three of us. Our Dog has extracted a mouthful of sticky willies from his nether parts which he is spitting like ball-bearings one by one onto the carpet. I am at my desk, trying to conjure up new slogans to fit in with our 'Chutney Rhyming Slang' campaign. Bloggiana is at the table, lighting up a cig, then taking the cig to a map of the London underground – and planting a firm black circle on an area roughly on the spot where I imagine Bayswater should be. It seems the west coast line may be free from Bloggiana's advances for some time to come.
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