182. "Lewis"

Oh, how I wish I were cool. (and you can tell that I'm uncool because I believe in the power of the subjunctive. Anyway.)

I was sitting on my tod last evening, the Hound and Herself being out, and I was flicking between 24 hours in A&E, and Lewis. 24 hours in A&E is a wonderful fly-on-the-wall documentary about King's College Hospital. Lewis is a slightly rubbish detective spin-off. I ended up sticking with Lewis.

But I'll tell you why. Because Doris, aged 92, had fallen out of bed and spent the night on the floor, because she couldn't get to the phone to summon help. She was still bright and alert, and she had a smile for all the doctors and nurses who were prodding her, even though she was clearly still a bit shocked and frightened. She was all alone. The lady consultant doctor (usually a fairly brutal breed, in my experience) was exquisitely gentle and non-patronising with Doris, as she tried to work out just how vulnerable Doris really was.
Doris had a broken hip, but she didn't moan or complain ONCE. Not like the young bloke in the bed next to hers, who'd twisted his knee. You'd think he'd impaled his scrotum on a giant metal spike, the amount of fuss he was making.

Only the fact that Doris occasionally gasped or seemed to struggle to catch her breath gave away the pain she was in. And, frankly, I wasn't woman enough to continue watching. Doris was lucky, in lots of ways, still to be living by herself at 92. And the lovely doctor was going to make sure she was OK. But it was too much. It made me too sad.

So I switched over to Lewis. Aaahhhhh. And, relax. There's old Whately, schlumping about, doing lots of eyebrow acting. There's Donkey-Angel Boy, looking ugly and gorgeous at PRECISELY the same time. There's Oxford. There's a cast of B-list English Ac-tors and a not-bad script by Alan Plater. Not real. Not hard to watch. Not likely to make me want to get on my bicycle at 10pm to find Doris and make her come and live in my basement.

So, yes, I'm the dummy. But sometimes I just CAN'T. And Lewis was created for those moments.

181. French people in London

There are lots of Frenchies in London at the moment. I'm not referring to backpacked tourists, but to those sensible French people who come to London to live and work. They are sensible because they know that the only way the French will ever positively influence our appalling habits is to live and work among us, and effect change from the inside. So they are sensible, and also cunning.

But mainly, they wear great clothes, and they are often extremely attractive and - best of all - they speak French! It's like being on St Andre des Arts without having to get on the Eurostar.

I feel a bit sorry for them, though, because where are they buying decent coffee, and apart from the French House and Beaujolais, where are they buying decent wine by the glass, and what are they doing with their leetle dogs, and where are they buying their cool and trendy clothes, and why aren't they in Paris - which is like London, only French?

So many questions.

If I could have these questions answered (to my satisfaction) I would be well on my way to forgiving London for not being Paris (or New York) - so answers on a postcard, please, to....

180. Gravy

Why would anybody - ever - refer to something as 'jus' when they could call it gravy? Jus is pointless and affected. Gravy is delicious*

*Not all gravy is delicious. Sometimes, it is grey, lumpy and tasteless. Sometimes, it is greasy and disgusting. But let's think positive.

Roast beef and yorkshire pudding, and lots of thick, rich, glossy gravy - made with beef marrow and good red wine? Yes, please.

Roast chicken with roast potatoes and salad, with lots of gelatine-rich chicken juicy gravy? Yes, please.

(It occurs to me that I might not have much for the vegetarians here. Sorry about that.)

Good sausages, mash, green beans - and salty, scented, onion gravy? Yes, please.

Thai curries are just rice, protein and vegetables covered in hot, spicy coconut milk gravy. Mmm.

And never forgetting my university staple: chips and gravy. Believe me, it works.

So don't call it jus. Gravy deserves more respect than that.

179. The Dobro

My mate Paul gave me a load of music off his computer recently, and I'm working my way slowly through it as I sit on the underground and wend my way to work. I have got a bit stuck, though, on Alison Krauss and Union Station.

I know. But what can I do? My heart is moved, so my brain must follow.

So there's Alison, who's a bit funny lookin' if you ask me but sings as clear and pure as the proverbial lark. And then there's Dan Tyminski who's a dude. Then there's a load of beardy-weirdy muso types. And then there's the dobro. The dobro, for those what don't kno, is the twangy guitar. Yes, that is a technical term. It's a sliding steel guitar or something. Whatevs, it goes great on these toons.

So on 'The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn' (a favourite) the dobro does lots of twanging over Dan singing plangently (is this possible? Ed.) about the silly boy who was too lazy to hoe his corn, got rejected by the good farmer lady next door, and ended up telling her that she'll rue the day. Rue the day, I tell you! It's a serious business, this hoeing. Fuck with it at your peril.

Twang.

You'll know the sound I mean if you have ever,
a) listened consciously to any bluegrass music, or
b) watched O Brother, Where Art Thou

If you haven't done either, then you need to do both RIGHT NOW (you'll do a while doing b in a two for one type deal) and don't speak to me until it's done.

178. Friday night

Friday evenings can be lacklustre, when you're a freelancer. But when you have a real job, they resume their status as 'most exciting evening of the week.'

Nigel Slater (apparently) has a tradition of opening a bottle of fizz when the working part of Friday is done, which I think is an excellent tradition.

So this Friday I shimmied home, and Herself drove me and the Hound to the seaside through the pouring rain. We had champagne, and amazing steak from the Ginger Pig, and salad from our own garden. And we sat and watched the weather and caught up. We always have our best chats on Friday nights, just us two. Then she had a Very Good Idea, the fruit of which can be seen here: http://castingaspersions.blogspot.com/2011/06/tinker-tailor.html very shortly...

And the weekend unfurled itself before me, as soft and welcoming as a kitten's tummy, and I felt very happy, and very lucky, and went to sleep.

177. A book on the tube

Leicester Square to Baron's Court. Piccadilly Line. Takes about 25 minutes. If you are me, and the (only literary*) child of the Parent, you can get quite a lot of reading done. This week, I have read Joshua Ferris' second novel, The Unnamed. I prefer it to his first - Then We Came to the End. I think he has the potential to be incredibly good, but what I like most about him is that he seems to know that, too. You can sense him flexing muscles, building sinew, working hard. Using each novel as an opportunity to learn, and grow, and expand. And that - for all you 25-year-old Orange Prize winners out there - is how it Fucking Should Be.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, the tube.

Next, I will be reading Naomi Alderman's second novel - The Lessons. I loved her first, Disobedience, and recommended it to anyone who would listen. This is clearly a time for second novels.

But the great joy of books on the tube is that with my ipod on and a book in my hand I can pretend that I am not stuck in a human sardine tin, vulnerable to terrorism, halitosis and BO. The time flies and suddenly we emerge into the sunlight and I disembark (or alight, I suppose) and all is well.

*Please note that I do not say 'literate' here. Both my brothers can read, they just don't, much. Of course the older one doesn't read much books, but he does read much scripts. The little one is pretty and charming enough to get away with only ever reading PG Wodehouse and Len Deighton.

176. A Regular Wage

Work vs Income. The big trade-off.

It is not HUMANE to make a person sit in an open-plan office for 8 hours a day, Monday to Friday. It is only made remotely tolerable by a monthly pay cheque.

I am currently standing very still in the middle of a mental shit-storm (scuse my French) as the full remembered horror of full-time work battles with the huge relief of having some money again. I stand VERY still. I read books. I try not to get drunk (because that only makes it worse). I watch TV. I do not think about not having seen the BF Baby for weeks because I have to work and the weekends are short. I do not think about how the time I have for all those people I love most is truncated because I have to sit in an office with (perfectly nice) strangers all day.

No.

I focus on the positive. I'm not stony broke any more. We can go on holiday. I can buy shoes, books, T-shirts and DVD box sets again. I can meet my friends in real pubs, and not only Sam Smiths smegholes. I can go out to dinner. I can buy people nice presents. I can sleep through the night.

Perhaps most positive of all - I'm ready to get back to the book. It is my Obi-Wan Kenobe. It is my only hope.

But until I can raise an army to defeat the Emperor Routine and his evil henchman Darth Boredom, I will be doing it for the money.

Which makes me Han Solo.

Cool.

175. Lists - Favourite Writers

I like lists. I write quite a few of them, even if I lose or ignore the vast majority I write. I like other people's lists too, though. I like reading Herself's lists because of the exotic spelling and the written evidence of the way her funny little mind works. I like BF's lists, because they are written in such tiny writing it can take quite a long time simply to decipher them. And I am always interested in famous people's lists - particularly if they are of their favourite writers, or books. So I decided that today I would list my favourite male and female writers - in no particular order:

MALE - Top 5 (as of today, 6th June 2011)

1. Charles Dickens (Duh. Anybody who says they don't like Dickens can't read. End of.)
2. Patrick Gale (Simple, effective, the one to match. For me.)
3. A.A. Milne (He invented Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga, Roo and Owl. Now go back and imagine your childhood without him. Exactly.)
(I am finding this quite difficult. Mental strobing.)
4. Nigel Slater (Comfort reading becomes comfort food. Perfection)
5. Philip Pullman (A genius.)

FEMALE - Top 5 (as of ten minutes later, 6th June 2011)
1. Jane Austen (The Master.)
2. Elinor Lipman (Funny, perfectly observed, jealous-making.)
3. Nigella Lawson (Always herself. Erudite. Like taking a long bubble bath in good writing.)
4. Stella Gibbons (for Cold Comfort Farm alone. That's quite a novel.)
5. Susan Cooper (underrated. brilliant.)

I could go on with the girls. I could include Dorothy L Sayers, Maggie O'Farrell, Rebecca Tyrrell, Elizabeth David, Sarah Waters, Charlotte Mendelson, Mary Wesley, Donna Tartt etc etc.

Much harder with the boys. Perhaps what they say is true. Or maybe it's just that I'm a bit sleepy and I've been reading more girls than boys recently. I'm going for the latter. You can think what you like...

174. Planning a menu

This Friday, Herself's lovely parents will have been married 50 years. Which is an extraordinary achievement even before you take into consideration the personalities of the individuals involved, and those of their three daughters. (I'm kidding. Love them all as if they were my blood.)

The family have gathered in Dorset for a week of family togetherness - and the big anniversary supper on Friday is a highlight. I am head chef. I will have team of sous-chefs. But still.

So I'm planning the menu. Herself is OBSESSED with mackerel fishing, so she decided that we would be having mackerel as a first course. I had no problem with that - mackerel is sustainable, delicious and good for you. Plus kids hate it so that will piss off the middle sister fairly immediately.

She is making Gravad Max. I'm sure it will be excellent. I will be making a small amount of creamy, herby potato salad to have with it, and if I thought anybody would eat it, I'd make fresh pickled cucumber too. Stupid e-coli outbreak.

Then we're going to have butterflied leg of lamb, marinated in a mint and coriander yogurt and roasted over a tray of veg so they get all gooey and caramelised by the yummy meat juices. Mint and coriander yogurt to accompany and possibly something green and crunchy.

Then elderflower and gooseberry fool.

Then local cheeses.

Then coffee.

Then collapse with another glass of wine and let the others do the washing up.

I'm looking forward to it. I'll need to be organised, but there's not much actual cooking involved, so the timings shouldn't be too complicated.

Hopefully, it will be a beautiful early June night. And there won't be any squabbling and the kids will behave and/or go to bed early. Wish me luck!