197. Packed Lunch

In the much-missed old days of early freelancing, when work was plentiful, me and Mr Farringer used to meet once a week in the French House for lunch. And very civilized it was too.

But those days are gone, and tho' Hammersmith is replete with sandwich vendors and we even have a sort-of canteen in the building, more often than not I bring my own lunch. And, because I'm a saddo, I bought myself a really lovely food flask the other day, to transport the lunch in.

Today's feast was leftover green curry. None the worse for a night in the fridge and a blast in the microwave. This week I have had two soups, a leftover lasagne and one (bought) salad. Guess which was the only disappointment.

Packed lunch saves money, and it tastes nicer than most fridge-cold sandwiches or wilted salads you can buy. And now I have a lovely flask. Which cost money... But which will soon be recouped.

(A friend's father took his lunch in to work every day of his working life. After he retired he worked out that he had saved himself something like £30,000. Think on that, next time you're in the queue at Pret...)

196. The proof that Talent Will Out

Many years ago I worked in a big central London bookshop. I needed that job and for a while I was very happy. It helped that there was an extraordinary bunch of people working there, and I made some friends that I'm very glad still to have.

One of the loveliest booksellers, P, made sure that I knew where the canteen was, and the loos, and taught me, gently and patiently, to use the till and work the stock computer. He shared his lunch breaks with me and generally took excellent care of me. He made going to work a pleasure. And as he was a great bookseller he was a good example, too.

He's a modest man, but we all knew that in his spare time, P was an illustrator and graphic artist. He put up with the low pay and odd hours of bookselling because it gave him time to sit at his board. Many booksellers are aspiring writers or artists - of one sort or another - and who knows how many of them are genuinely talented, but my instinct was that P probably was. I hoped so, because it mattered to him that one day he'd establish himself, and his 'real' life would begin.

His hard work paid off. And it turns out he's very talented indeed, and now in huge demand. His success makes me happy, because he deserves it. And, more selfishly, it makes me happy because P's story is proof that all the effort and doubt might just be worth it after all.

195. North Norfolk

If, like me, you prefer lots of sky to lots of rolling hills and chocolate box houses, then you might like North Norfolk. It isn't flat, it's divine. The beach at Holkham (in the picture) takes the idea of 'big sky' country to something approaching maximum intensity. And often it's just me and Herself, thousands of geese, hundreds of sea birds, and the odd jet from RAF Marham. Dogs can't believe their luck, on Holkham beach.

And because it's Norfolk, there's a lovely pub nearby, with a lovely person in it serving lovely Adnams ales and lovely fresh crab sandwiches. God's own county, indeed.

194. An English Eccentric

Coming to the end of our daily walk in Suffolk, a tall, blonde figure leaps from a tiny white car and asks if we have seen any black labradors on our walk.

I reply that the only labrador we saw seemed to be accompanied by a young man.

'A tall young man? Blonde?'

Yes, we replied.

The figure sags slightly. 'Oh, that's Martin from the boatyard, and Codeine.'

On closer inspection, the figure is a woman in her mid-fifties. She's very lean and topped with a thatch of hair that is probably expensively cut and dyed. She's wearing a jumble sale T-shirt, a pair of multi-coloured shortish shorts and the inevitable beaten up docksiders in a range of colours.

Most curiously of all, she has several thousands of pounds worth of gold strung about her person. But she seems very nice and is concerned that two black labs have gone missing in the village.

'Found one of 'em yesterday but I'm worried that the other's gorn for gud.'

Then she notices the Hound. Face lights up.

'Oh! How beautiful! Can I give him a biscuit?'

Hound then refuses biscuit (probably too tired from walk and she doesn't like being mistaken for a boy, but rude nonetheless)

Figure sags slightly. Pats Hound. 'Never mind.'

We say that the Hound is eleven years old and a bit tired. Figure perks up again. 'Oh! You've kept her beautiful! How splendid! That one's eleven too.'

Points across to the white Fiat 500 which contains (just) a Newfoundland. We know instantly that the eleven year old is the dog and not the car, as the car is older than time. (Pic above is youthful and in excellent shape compared to this specimen.) Figure sets off to get back in the car. 'She'll slobber on my neck all the way home. Always does!' she adds, cheerfully. Then tears off amid roaring of hairdryer engine.

To say that this encounter made me happy is to VASTLY underestimate it.

Next morning at 8.30 I saw her again - wearing the same outfit, only this time with socks pulled up to mid-calf - saying hello to every dog she met in the street.

Who needs a crystal ball? Also, who calls their dog 'Codeine'?

193. Home-grown apples

Our friends R and H, who moved to Suffolk full-time three years ago and show no signs of desiccating with boredom, have fruit trees in their garden. In fact, they have an orchard.

When we saw them recently they gave us sackfuls of their own home-grown apples: Egremont Russets and Lord Lambourns. Deeeelicious. They do taste different fresh from the tree, it's true. And they're not all the same size, and colour.

R and H grow all sorts of other tasties: beetroot, potatoes, carrots, onions, herbs, pears, raspberries - etc.

Herself's little face comes over all misty when she thinks about having a garden large enough for vegetable growing on this scale, so it is my duty to work very hard so that she can have one.

192. Holocene by Bon Iver

If Hammersmith is the headache, this is the painkiller, and next week will bring the cure.

191. People who comment on websites

On weekday mornings, with my coffee and toast, I read the Guardian headlines online. If an article takes my fancy I read it, and then, inevitably, the comments that follow. And that is where the wheels come off the cart.

If I think about it carefully, I would say that I probably know three or four people who might occasionally be moved to comment on a newspaper website. They are all sane and reasonable people, but they would be in the minority.

The particular psychosis/neurosis/rampant egoism of the commenter will differ depending on the subject matter of the article. Articles about books or publishing drip with the despair and disdain of a million failed writers, holed up in their grotty basement flats, hating anybody with more talent (or just luck) than they possess.

Film articles have a similar cadre of commenters, but this lot's despair and disdain is accompanied by a healthy dollop of pseudery, thanks, no doubt, to regular reading of Sight & Sound magazine.

But you never know when the real loons are going to appear. You know the ones I mean, because they exist in all walks of life. These are the people who think that nobody should ever be allowed to achieve success of any kind without IMMEDIATE and INARGUABLE reference to somebody who's done it better. They are the fun police. They are the voices inside your head wondering why you bother EVER trying to do ANYTHING.

They do a lot of sniffing.

My favourite recent comment followed the second episode of 'The Hour', which concerned itself with a FICTITIOUS newsroom's response to the REAL Suez Crisis. There was an overwhelming array of sniffy comments about historical inaccuracies but an alarming number of people chose to wonder in public why the writers didn't check their facts before the programme went to air. Anthony Eden was never the Prime Minister of this country! Get your facts straight! Outrage!

My second favourite occurred just this week, in response to the Guardian's review of the Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy film. Apparently the review contained spoilers, and an enragement of commenters let rip, until one lone voice wondered how it is possible to spoil the ending of a book that has been in constant publication FOR THIRTY FIVE YEARS. Not to mention the award-winning TV series.

But this reasonable view was ignored, of course, and they went on their merry, sniffing, outraged, hate-filled way.

Who are these people? And is this what the internet is really for?

Please leave a comment below.

PS - YES, I know it should be 'commentators' but I don't want to give them the pleasure.