Day 184: Mouth Filth

For some time now I have been aware of the existence of wasabi chocolate.  I have circled it suspiciously in the supermarket.  I like wasabi.  I like chocolate.  But I don't entirely trust the combination.

I thought I would like chilli chocolate.  But I don't.  I think it is less than the sum of its parts.  The chilli makes the chocolate taste dingy, and the chocolate makes the chilli cardboardy.  Weird. 

I knew I would love salt chocolate.  And I do.  The salt simply makes the chocolate taste more chocolatey.  Surprising and brilliant. 

So I tried the wasabi today.  Not underwhelming, like the chilli chocolate.  Just WRONG.  Lovely peppery horseradish turns to bitter earth against the sweetness, with a sickly, stagnant pond aftertaste.  Both chocolate and wasabi lose in this battle.  No winners. 

One of the rare times I have actually spat chocolate out. 

Think it's relational.  A matter of with or against.  Chocolate and salt.  As opposed to chocolate versus wasabi.   

Day 183: Good Time Door

An invitation to a neighbour's long-mooted house-warming party.  It's been eighteen months in gestation, and frankly I don't have high hopes.  Troop round clutching bottle of wine, and expecting a a couple of drinks, stilted conversation, a handful of Twiglets and a speedy exit. 

Fast forward six hours, and it's half one in the morning.  Don't notice the time pass, fuelled by scandalous topics, jaw-dropping candour, high grade nibbles, and plentiful wine.  Much laughter.  Warm fudge cake and vanilla ice-cream.  And a TWO MINUTE walk home. 

The best times are those that present themselves without a fanfare.  Unexpected treasure.  Don't think you can cheat the odds by pretending that a planned event will probably be indifferent, hoping to engineer some magic.  You can't force it.  It doesn't work like that.   

Sometimes things just align, like a combination lock.  And the good time door springs open effortlessly. 

Hooray.

Day 182: Fishfingers

A knock on the door yesterday evening.  Perfectly timed to coincide with me having salmon hands (fishcake craft).  I open the door - there's a man with red hair and a matching rosette.  He looks startled.  I realise I am holding my fingers stiffly splayed - it probably looks odder than it feels. 

Rosette Man:  'Hello.  Voting for local elections is taking place this evening, up at the Jubilee Hall'.

Edward Salmon-Hands:  'Right.  I know the Jubilee Hall.'

(Awkward pause).

Rosette Man:  'I am the Labour candidate...'

Edward Salmon-Hands:  'Yes.  I guessed that from the rosette'.

(Awkward pause).

Rosette Man:  'Um...  Thank you for your time.'

(Exit) 

Ironic that the Labour candidate fails to put any labour into his efforts at all.  As he walks away into the rain, I am in half a mind to call him back.   'TELL me why I should vote for you!  INSPIRE me!  Come on, man - don't lose heart!  This is your CHANCE!'  But the fishcakes are calling, so I don't. 

I wonder why he didn't try harder.  Perhaps my hands put him off. 

Day 181: Magic Carpet

Another busy day, caught up in the detail of other people's very specific needs.  It's not until mid-afternoon that I actually remember what the date is.  Fifteen years ago today, my father died.

When something big like this happens, everything else is thrown into a different order.  Priorities change.  Day-to-day stresses are as insignificant as dandelion clocks, and as easily dispersible.  You sail above the quotidian on a magic carpet of higher cosmic significance.

This lasts for about two weeks.  Tops. 


My first experience with the carpet came after an accident that almost cost me my life.  On the day I was discharged from hospital, I drifted home, captivated by everything I saw.  Christmas lights, shopping crowds, the solidity and fumes of a London bus. 


I had been spared and everything was beautiful. 

As I say.  Two weeks.  Tops.  And then the normal order is restored. 

There's something to be said for magic carpet perspective, flying high above the trivial.  But the downside is that it's not truly connected to reality.  It is a detached overview.  A brilliant buffer - a comedown shock cushion.  But the real carpet of life isn't magic and floating and impermanent.  It's the dirty, knotty weft and warp of what's beneath our feet on a daily basis. 

Mine's a pub carpet.  One of those ones with a pattern that is 50% design; 50% accidental stains.  A few bald patches. 

And I think there might be something unspeakable in the corner.

Day 180: Ka Mate

Day two of job-from-hell.  Feeling stronger thanks to a proper night's sleep.  Controlling alpha boss has started to trust me, and is relaxed enough to crack some Germanic jokes. 

There is some light relief at the end of the day (and a break for me) in the form of a visit from two Maoris (Bruce and Lawrence) in tribal dress, who have been booked to teach everyone a Haka.  The classic one that the All Blacks do before matches. 

Ka mate, ka mate (Will I die?  Will I die?)
Ka ora, ka ora (Will I live?  Will I live?)

Yup.  That just about sums up the last couple of days for me...

The booker rings me as I get home.  He has spoken to the client, who says I 'pulled a blinder'.  Would I be prepared to do a repeat of the same job for them? 

There is a moment's pause.  I tell him to ask me in a couple of weeks.  When the wounds have healed and the scars are starting to fade. 

Ā, upane! Ka upane! (Onwards and upwards!)

Day 179: Grassbusting

A sleepless night.  Courtesy of an email received at ten o'clock last night, requesting that in addition to today's full programme, can I also 'do some sort of half-hour warm-up' for SEVENTY cynical participants.  HALF-HOUR.  SEVENTY.  CYNICAL.  As I've been out for a birthday dinner, I am stupid with wine and chocolate sauce.  Go to bed and fidget sleeplessly, hot with stress, brain activity and sugar sweats.  Truly horrible.

I ain't 'fraid of no grass

The day happens.  I more than get away with it.  But it comes at a price.  By mid-afternoon there's almost nothing left in my tank.  During a coffee break I notice a groundsman blowing grass-cuttings around, looking just like a Ghostbuster.  (Grassbuster).  His task looks very Zen in its simplicity.  Grass on; grass off.  I envy him. 

By the time I get home I am catatonic and weeping with exhaustion.  Fighting sleep at nine o'clock in front of 'Crimewatch' - but it's a good reminder that however stressful my day has been, it doesn't come close to being tied up by a psychopath in a balaclava brandishing a machete.    

Time to sleep.  And dream of Grassbusting. 

Day 178: Birthday Present

Not this...

The birthday gods are generous – the rain has stopped and the sky is blue and cloudless.  It calls to be enjoyed, so a potential rainy day plan of a visit to the Tower of London is shelved in favour of a three-hour walk in deepest Oxfordshire countryside, with Ordnance Survey map and compass. 

A hazardous undertaking, fraught with vague signposting, indistinct paths and poor compass management.  

This

But a lot less macabre than the Tower.  Instead of iron maidens and racks, it's sheep and ducks.  Bluebells and cowslips.  Yellow butterflies.  Less Traitor's Gate; more five bar gate.  A red kite buzzes overhead.  Repeatedly.  Hovering so low that you can see the markings on the underside of its wings. 

Nearing home, the clouds are beginning to gather.  By the evening it is raining again. 

Lucky.  Happy Birthday to me.